


over waters, turning gold

by lousea



Category: Cricky - Fandom, Football RPF
Genre: Alternate POVs, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rimming, coming to terms with sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7885405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousea/pseuds/lousea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since meeting him in 2001, Cristiano hadn’t thought of Ricky once.<br/>But when he starts playing for Manchester United and everything changes, there’s a huge blank space in his life that he can’t even name. And when they meet again in 2004, Ricky becomes the only thing Cristiano can think about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, this happened.  
> It's honestly just my vision of how Cris and Ricky met, how their relationship might have grown over the years plus an insane amount of angst, because angst is what I do. I'm in no way saying that this is what actually happened or that the characters are what Cris and Ricky are like in real life. This is just fiction based on what I think their story might have been and my own feelings about a lot of things. 
> 
> If you have any questions or would just like to chat please comment (every comment is literally like Christmas morning to me) or contact me via tumblr at www.footiehusbands.tumblr.com :)
> 
> This fic wouldn't have happened without three lovely people:  
> @thecrickyhug who made the magical photoset for this fic and has motivated me to write it just by being the kindest, loveliest person ever!  
> @the-magnus-effect whose help with portuguese words and information on the portuguese culture is priceless and she's the sweetest flower petal :)  
> @cr7cky who is a huge part of this fandom even existing and has supported my work so much!
> 
> Thank you all so much, I really hope you enjoy this!

**4 February, 2001**

He promised himself that on his 17th birthday, he wouldn't cry.  
  
He promised that he would play the part of that boy, that _man_ he had created the day he decided to leave home and save his family. And that man only cries when he loses or when he wins. Never because he's weak enough to quit.

His whole life he told himself that no, this was not everything there was. There would be more, so much more if he gradually, but surely became someone else. 

So no, he won't cry, even though he wants to. Crying would be what the old Cristiano would do, if he was alone and scared, a long way from home. He can't be that boy anymore, the boy from the island, the poor kid from the streets who's never even been in Lisbon before. 

He knows that, he _learned_   that in the first few days, but he still can't control it, he can't stop being exactly who they think he is. That hurts a lot more than the nicknames and the loneliness, because it's his own failure, something he promised he would never feel. 

"Who did this to you?" the man asks, watching him undress.  
  
"It doesn't matter" he answers, like it's his only answer to every question.  
  
The truth is, he doesn't want to admit what happened. He can't bare the thought of anyone knowing how pathetic he is, getting jumped by those boys, those _kids_ , that have watched him practice almost every day since he arrived to Lisbon. Sometimes they just laugh and make fun of him. But other times they don't talk.  
  
"Did this happen at home? Did... your father do this?" the stranger's eyes go down to his ribs, the dark bruise still blossoming on his side and all the way down to his hips.  
  
"My father isn't here" Cristiano cuts him off, a laugh stuck in his throat, almost convincing, "I got in a fight, okay? Forget about it."  
  
The man smiles and nods, but his eyes tell him that they aren't done. He had seen him before, that stranger who could be just a few years older than him but he seems like someone important, shaking hands with Bölöni once or twice when he comes to the club. Cris saw it himself, but they never spoke, he just knows that the man had been watching him, even at practice. He'd stand on the sidelines, talking to someone and then, when Cris turned around, he would see that fucking smile, like they were friends. And he doesn't have friends.  
  
"Okay, well, you should tell someone" the man says and Cris snorts, like the brat he is trying to be. They are in the dressing room or rather the man is snooping around where he shouldn't be. He's not a player, he's not on the board, he's no one.  
  
"I don't know you. Don't tell me what to do."  
  
There is a hand on his arm and a firm handshake before he can control what his body is doing. The man's skin is rough, harsher than he would have thought and so warm that Cris instantly feels a tingle dance all the way around his shoulders.  
  
"My name is Ricardo and I want to help you. There, now you know me." 

**  
22nd May, 2004**

For him the ball is never round, Ricky thinks with a faint smile.

It's not even a material object, soulless and dead. When it merely touches his feet, the ball comes alive, becoming an almost liquid matter that can be shaped and controlled. He watches as it rolls around the field, as if finding it's way to the player it has the most fun with, Cris speeding across the pitch to reclaim it as his own.

Ricardo knows this, because he knows Cristiano.

"Look at that portuguese fucker" the bartender says on a breath, his elbow working up and down as he cleans another glass, "he's the most arrogant prick I've ever seen in my life, but blimey, can he spin that ball."

"He's going to be the world's best player one day" Ricky answers, quietly and in a tone as if he isn't even interested in the conversation. And to be honest, he's not. There had been a lot of bars and a lot of talks like this in the past few months and he heard it all before. The distance mixed with a spark of interest. The apprehension followed by awe. The unsettling feeling of being fascinated without knowing why. He knows exactly how people react to this boy that appeared from nowhere and acts like the number 7 on his back is his God given right.

Fuck, it drives him crazy.

"How would you know that?"

"You'll see" he says calmly, swallowing the rest of his beer in one. He doesn't even know how many of them he'd had since he woke up at 5 pm in his empty flat. He must be turning into a true Brit, he thinks with a shudder, trying to suppress the yearning he has for a glass of wine in the sun and the sea, _God_ , the sea.

The crowd gasps as Cris performs a rabona cross and Ricky smirks, watching it fly past Scholes, who looks as surprised as the bartender that Ricky's observing in his peripheral vision.

"Do you know that guy or something?" the man asks, catching his involuntary smile.

"No" Ricky lies, "I just have a feeling."

The first half is ending and it's still 0-0, the pressure to do something, _anything_ , slowly crushing Ricardo's scull from the inside. But as always, there's nothing he can do. Suddenly though, before Ricky can clench his hands into fists and almost feel the taste of adrenaline on his tongue, the bar explodes and the ball was is the net.

Cristiano's running his victory lap, his curls bouncing as the other players smash into him in celebration and Ricky feels something swelling in his chest and throat, threatening to cut off his air. Cris' gaze, hard and focused, meets his from the screen hanging on the ceiling behind the bar and Ricky knows that he won't be able to stand it much longer. He throws some bills onto the counter and gets up, putting on his coat.

"Hey! Don't you want to watch the second half?" the bartender shouts after him as he opens the door.

"No. I saw what I needed to see" Ricardo answers and steps out into the rain.

**5th July, 2004**

Despite the countless pleas, he's almost physically unable to see his family.  
  
He knows what he will hear sooner or later. _Cristiano, it's just a sport. Nobody died._ They love him, he knows they do. His sisters, Hugo and Dinis too. And of course _mamã_ , she understands almost everything. But not now, not in moments like these.  
  
Because someone did die.  
  
The vision, the legend he had created and that he wanted to be. If he had scored, he would now be the hero, the man who made history. No matter what he did in the future, he would be safe. He would be remembered.  
  
It's been 24 hours since the final of the Euros and a few weeks until the start of the training season with Manchester United. He chose to leave Portugal almost immediately and when the plane touched down back in England, he felt like he was the last man in the world. Nobody understood, not even his teammates, not even Luiz. He is the one who had the most to prove and he failed, failed, failed. He grew to hate that word and the constant fear that came with it.   
  
He spends the day trying to forget about it, training in the room he had equipped with every device he could afford. With every minute and every trickle of sweat that drops off his chin, he feels like he's punishing himself, relentlessly hurting his body and straining it to a point that he knows is dangerous. If he actually injures himself, he won't be able to go back to the pitch in August and that's the darkest thought he can imagine.  
  
But still, he keeps going until he's unable to do anything but collapse on the hard, cold floor and gasp for air until he passes out. When he wakes up, his body still covered in sweat, he feels completely blank. There is only one thing that matters, the dull, aching feeling of satisfaction that makes thoughts of home dissapear. The shower seems to be a mile away from where he crashed, so when he finally gets there, he sits down on the cold, probably dirty tiles and maybe even dozes off again, the blistering hot water pouring down his back and shoulders until they feel raw.  
  
He doesn't feel like eating or seeing anyone, but for the first time since he can remember he doesn't feel like training either. Suddenly, his couch looks very appealing so he sits down, wondering if he had actually used it before.   
  
An hour later, he's sprawled across the whole thing, watching reality TV and contemplating the idea of ordering some thai food. The phone rings just as he's about to get up.  
  
"Cristiano?" a voice says in that weird accent and Cris half smiles, half rolls his eyes, "Are you there?"  
  
"Yes, Alex. I'm here" he answers, his English still making him cringe.  
  
"Oh good, you're back. Listen, I know it's tough in moments like these but we need you. You're a star and you'll win it another year, okay? Your career has just begun."  
  
"Yes, sir" Cris says, not trying to hide the laugh in his voice. Nobody actually calls Ferguson _sir_. "I'll be at the club on the first day of training."  
  
"No, I mean now. We need you now. Well, not right now, but at the party on Friday. You haven't forgotten, have you?"  
  
Shit. He completely forgot about the party for the start of the season.  
  
"Of course not" Cris mumbles, not sure how to sound more convincing in a language he can barely order a coffee in.  
  
"Great. I'll send a car. Oh, by the way, a few hopefulls might be there, you might know some of them from your early days, you know, at home. Oh, and a lot of partners. Not press of course, just a lot of important people, you know? So I expect you to be on your best behaviour."  
  
"Of course" he says again and instantly feels his cheeks burn.  
  
"Wonderful. I'll see you there".  
  
Cris lets out a sigh of relief, knowing that no answer's needed. He lowers the phone and frowns, trying to remember which button to press to turn it off. He's never had a wireless phone before.  
  
"Oh, Cristiano! I would have forgotten" he hears before he can hung up and rolls his eyes again.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I met this guy recently. Says he knows you from the Sporting days, nice chap, one of your kind. We had a nice chat about you. He works for Nike, so he'll be at the party too, I said I'd tell you. Ricardo something?"


	2. Chapter 2

**9th July, 2004**

At this point, Ricky's knowledge of how he ended up at the party in the first place is close to non-existent.

He must have been invited - or ordered would be the better way to put it - by his boss sometime in the past few weeks, but the actual conversation is lost forever in a blur of similar conversations that often result in him dreading a particular date in his calendar and then blaming himself for it.  
  
Of course, attending an event like this is a huge boost for his career and he probably should be beyond excited at the thought that his boss actually wants and needs him to be there. Because it's everyone's dream come true, a party that truly would make anyone's entire life. But not his. At twenty-five he's almost sure that his life is everything it could ever be and meeting a bunch of football stars isn't likely to make it any better. Besides, he already knows a lot of them and honestly? They're mostly pricks. The simple facts are that after five years of a fairly succesful career Ricky still hasn't found what he so desperately needs. A sense of purpose.  
  
He tries not to think about all that as he sits in his car, clutching the ridiculous bottle of wine. After all, he hasn't really been to these kind of parties before or that's what he's planning to say if anyone asks him why he brought supermarket wine to a high profile event that gathered some of the richest people in the sports industry. As the panic continues to grow, he's beggining to regret the suit too. Maybe it's a casual thing or, God forbid, one of those all-white parties where everyone looks like they're part of a cult, in which case showing up in a suit he wears to work every other day would be a horrifying faux pas.  
  
With a heavy sigh, he leaves the bottle on the back seat, looking forward to drinking it himself later, and climbs out of the car. He turns around, an unsettling feeling of not belonging tightening in his chest as he takes in the sight of the house, or rather the villa, in front of him. That must be what they call a villa, he thinks, trying not to look too intimidated by the massive rooftop extending all the way around the patio and the actual columns standing on mosaic tiles.  
  
He passes two enormous vases with something that looks too exotic even for him growing inside them and steps onto the low stairs that lead to the patio landing. He wonders if somebody actually lives there or if it's a rental party house, because he can't imagine being in the building alone at night. There's only one more storey above the guest-filled ground floor, but the size of the house is big enough to hold every Premier League team and their girlfriends too. The music thunders into to night out of a huge bay window and the lights from inside cast strangely shaped, vibrating shadows onto the white brick of the building and the faces of a small group of people smoking on the patio. His boss is one of them, Ricky notices with some relief.  
  
"Ricky, finally! I thought I told you not to be late” he shouts once he spots him and all of Ricky's warm feelings disappear as the small crowd laughs and stares at him.  
  
"Well, I'm afraid we Mediterraneans are less concerned with things like time than you western folks, Mark” he answers with the widest smile he can muster, sincerely hoping that the short, bony woman who glares at him with obvious disgust is not only British herself but also intelligent enough to notice that he doesn't feel like laughing at all, „Excuse me, I should go pay my compliments to the host.”  
  
At that, his boss shoots him _the look_ – something he has come to know quite well in the past few months, especially at times when he can't keep pretending that he takes his job as seriously as it seems. It's just a job - a well paid one, yes, and quite prestigious too, but just a job nonetheless.  
  
The truth is that he envies these people, Ricky realizes as he walks through the mahogany doors and is instantly overwhelmed by the crowds inside.  
  
He doesn't want their wealth or fame, not even their huge houses and expensive cars. The women there are the most glamourous, stunning women he has ever seen, in waist deep cleavages and shimmering jewellery, but he isn't interested in them either. What he truly and deeply wants is something most of the people gathered at the party have – a passion. For business or for the game itself or for something completely different, they all seem to know exactly why they're there and, what's even worse, they seem to completely belong in the moment, which is something Ricky can definitely not say about himself.  
  
The ground floor is basically a huge, spacious lounge, the marble floors covered with fluffy carpets and white walls surrounding the row of windows looking out onto the garden. Quite a few people are dancing, the men's dark suits contrasting the soft, sheer fabrics of the dresses spinning around them. Quite a few are drunk too, sitting in leather chairs and sofas, shouting to each other at a level that challenges the music roaring through the house.  
  
Ricky looks around, in a state of mild shock, and instantly wishes to be magically transported to a kitchen where, no doubt, he would find a fridge full of alcohol. He maneuvers his way through the center of the room and ends up facing the wall of windows. Behind them, the backyard glistens in the teal blue glow of the pool. Ricky's gaze drifts through the silhouettes of people moving in the dark and sure enough, at the end of the patio he spots a large, wooden bar bursting with bottles of every alcohol he could possibly need to get through the night.  
  
After battling with the sliding doors for much longer than he hopes anyone noticed, he walks out onto the white tiles around the pool and makes his way towards the bar, praying that he won't have to talk to anybody until he gets there. And of course, an open bar it is, which makes him instantly crave jumping behind it and making himself a nice glass of _poncha_. On a second thought though, he grabs the nearest whisky bottle he can find and pours himself a double.  
  
"Ricky!" he hears from behind and spuns around, glass in hand.  
  
It's that girl that he always sees at events from work, the tall blonde who works for one of the advertising companies, he can never remember which one. She's actually stunning, in her classic, but impressively draped black dress and gold curls falling onto her shoulders. The most interesting thing about her, though, is that strong sense of professional distance and the fact that, despite the fashion ten out of ten, she's clearly there for business.  
  
"Hannah" she reminds him with a big smile as he blinks at her, trying to remember.  
  
"Of course, I'm so sorry! Hannah. I'm always half drunk when I see you, forgive me" he explains and she laughs, that high-pitched but not actually annoying laugh he knows quite well after that time a few weeks back when they ended up mostly smoking outside, talking about 80s' music.  
  
"I completely understand" she says, leaning on the counter of the bar and glancing over her shoulder, "What are we having?"  
  
"The usual, I guess" Ricky answers, handing her his glass of whiskey and pouring himself another one, "Thank God you're here though, that means I can sip on your cocktail later."  
  
Hannah snorts a not so glamourous laugh into her glass as Ricky looks around, trying to find the one person he came here to talk to. The pressure's rising as other companies are already in the race to get to him and he knows that this might be his only chance to seal the deal first.  
  
He notices him even before Hannah says anything, the tall figure sprawled across a sunbed chair, tanned body melting into the dark like crystalized caramel.  
  
“So, have you heard the latest gossip? Ronaldo with that model over there, see?” Hannah nods towards them, not bothering to be subtle, „They're lucky that we managed to keep the press out or that right there would be all over tomorrow's tabloids.”  
  
Ricky watches from the other side of the pool as the girl, whoever she is, raises her hand and places it on Cristiano's knee, letting it wonder higher and higher, in slow motion almost, all the way up his thigh.  
  
And Cristiano's laughing, not even flinching, clearly quite comfortable in his reclining position as he leans over and whispers something into the girl's hair. Ricky has seen him in action before, charming his way through any conversation, but this is different, this is distant. In the past few years Ricky had only seen Cristiano a few times, usually from afar at a game or a conference, but they hadn't really talked since the Sporting days. Looking at him now, Ricardo realizes that he doesn't know the man at all. He had met a boy, a football revelation - yes, but a child. The Cristiano that sits across the pool, the blue haze of the water enveloping him in the dark, is someone that Ricky had never met before.  
  
And yet, he feels that pull towards him that he can't fight, some undefined urge to just be around him and he knows he would feel the same way even if he didn't need to speak to him for business reasons. The Cristiano he's looking at now is oozing confidence, even his moves lazy and slow as if he's saying: _I don't need to be here. You are the ones that need me to be here._ And Ricky feels nervous.  
  
„You know what? I actually need to talk to him, we're trying to get him to sign with us” he says and leaves his glass on the counter.  
  
„Oh? I thought you two knew each other, can't you just like call him or something?” Hannah asks, her eyes not leaving Cristiano for one second, hungry for him to make a move on the girl sitting with him, a potential sensation brewing in the air.  
  
„I prefer to talk business face to face” Ricky smiles, touching Hannah's arm briefly before disappearing into the crowd dancing by the pool, familiar faces stopping him to say hello or try to get him to dance, but his mind is set. He needs to get to Cris before he chickens out.  
  
He has to bite back a laugh as he realizes that he's not the only one hoping to talk to Cristiano, small groups of people orbiting him constantly, pretending to talk amongst each other, but glancing his way every few seconds as if urging him to get up and socialize. And that isn't happening anytime soon. Cris is obviously happy where he is, the model's hand still on his thigh as they talk, her hair hitting his face every time she shakes her head, laughing.  
  
„Cristiano” Ricky says louder than he was planning to, approaching them from behind, „ _Olá, boa noite_.”  
  
Cris jumps almost, sitting up and twisting around to look at him. He hasn't changed much, his face still so young and smooth, but there's something different about him too, something harder and more on edge in his features and a strange blank stare in his eyes.  
  
„Oh! Hello, you scared me” Cristiano mumbles and laughs a nervous laugh, „Ricardo, right? I remember you.”  
  
Ricky smiles, nodding, his eyes not leaving Cristiano's for one second.  
  
„Good to know” he answers, switching back to English and extending his hand to introduce himself to the clearly confused girl at Cristiano's side, „Hi, I'm Ricky. Cristiano's friend from Portugal. Nice to meet you.”  
  
He knows that him and Cris aren't friends. He's actually surprised that Cris even remembered his name. But he needs to seem like he's perfectly comfortable to get his full attention.  
  
The girl smiles and introduces herself – the name she gives is surely not a real one, just a product of her agency so she could seem original and exotic. Ironic, because Ricky forgets what it is the minute she finishes pronouncing it.  
  
"Wow, from Portugal!" she exclaims, way more excited than necessary, "So, do you live here? What do you do?"  
  
Ah, the classic question.  
  
"I work for Nike and currently I'm at the London base, so... I'm stuck here" he answers politely, but switches back to Portuguese before she can continue questioning him, "Speaking of the old days, I had a short holiday in Madeira a few months ago, did you know that people leave flowers and letters at the house where you used to live? It's quite scary actually” he says casually, only to Cristiano, hands in his pockets and the Portuguese words feeling so good in his mouth, as though he can taste them.  
  
Cristiano's previously empty, disinterested eyes light up and he shifts in his chair, turning towards Ricky like a flower to the sun.  
  
"Madeira?" he repeats quietly, "In Funchal?"  
  
"Well, yes, we stopped there on our way back" Ricky says and instantly feels guilty. It's a lie, he didn't go to Madeira with anyone else, he went alone, "I just wanted to go there to see the Vicentes museum."  
  
"Oh yeah? Not to leave flowers at my house?" Cristiano says in English, laughing, but he's not looking at Ricky, directing his words somewhere into the brisk, evening air.  
  
"Why are you speaking English?" Ricky asks before he can stop himself, "We might be the only Portuguese people in this whole damn country, you should take your chance while you have it."  
  
"Well, I was actually talking to my friend, so -" Cristiano starts, his tone a lot colder and more forceful and Ricky knows that he should leave him alone.  
  
But he doesn't.  
  
"Really? It seems like you're talking to me, doesn't it?"  
  
And now Cris is looking at him, his brows furrowed and mouth half-open.   
  
"I think I'm gonna go get a drink" the girl says suddenly, getting up and leaving without another word. Ricky watches her as she walks away and then looks down at Cristiano, trying to make his expression look apologetic and failing miserably because he's very, very happy with himself.  
  
"And I think I'll sit down if this seat is not taken" he says cheerfully, pushing his luck even more.  
  
"Look, I don't know what you think you're -" Cristiano tries again, in Portuguese this time, but Ricky cuts him off again before he can finish.  
  
"I know, I'm sorry. I'm sure you can find her later. I'm going to be honest, my boss asked me to talk to to you" he says in one breath, before he can change his mind.  
  
"Ah, _merda_ " Cristiano swears, slamming his palm on his knee and leaning back onto the chair, defeated, "I could have known, the bastard has been chasing me for weeks. What do you want?"  
  
"I don't want anything, it's your decision if you want to sign with us or not. Mark just thought I could get to you because I already work with the national team" Ricky explains and laughs at Cris' resigned expression, "I know, you don't give a fuck. Neither do I to be honest, I just needed to be seen talking to you so I could have some peace and quiet."  
  
They sit there in silence for a few minutes, Cristiano nodding slowly, his gaze fixed on the glistening surface of the pool. There's no way of telling if he's thinking about something in particular or just demonstrating his lack of interest in any further conversation on the subject.  
  
"Well, I should be going, my date is waiting for me" Ricky mutters finally, getting up and glancing at Hannah who's pouring herself another glass at the bar, "Just give me a call if you decide anything."  
  
He stands up beside Cristiano's chair, looking down at him awkwardly and not moving until Cris is forced to get up too to shake his hand. His skin is hot, as if permanently accumulating the portuguese sun, even in the chilly, evening aura.  
  
"It was good to see you" Ricky says, feeling the hard gaze on his back as he starts walking around the pool.  
  
"Ricardo?" he hears from behind, a wide grin appearing on his face. Maybe he's good at his job after all.  
  
" _Sim?_ "  
  
"Call Jorge, I'll tell him to look at your offer" Cristiano huffs, plopping back down onto the chair.  
  
"That's all I was asking for" Ricky smiles and turns around to make his way back to the bar.

**14th August, 2004**

Ricky is constantly conflicted on how he feels about living alone, in this crappy apartament where the sun blisters through the small windows only in the early hours of the morning, causing him to wake up covered in sweat and desperate for a glass of anything cold.  On one hand, living alone has it's perks, like walking around naked to his heart's content or even smoking an occasional cigarette in bed if he feels like it. Mostly though, it involves watching Queer as Folk into the late hours of the night, or the early hours of the morning, and oversleeping to work.

Today is one of those days.  
  
He wakes up on the couch, something he absolutely hates, his joints stiff and sore, the TV still on. Some guy is staring back at him from the screen, talking about the importance of maintaining a healthy mind and body through meditation.   
  
"Hi, please stall for me" Ricky says into the phone, his secretary on the other end already humming nervously, "I'm stuck in traffic."  
  
He finishes ironing his shirt, showing the breakfast TV guy the middle finger as he buttons it up and leaves the house in a hurry. There's no time for breakfast or anything else - he has at least twenty minutes of commuting ahead of him and he's already half an hour late. Fuck.  
  
Normally he wouldn't be bothered, he's not important enough to be absolutely essential at most meetings, but today he's supposed to prepare a draft of the advertising deal and wait for someone from Cristiano's team to come pick it up. It has been a few weeks since the party and the talks went surprisingly well, a long and mutually fruitful relationship just on the verge of being set in motion. Cristiano actually showed up to most of the meetings, more interested in goofing around and playing practical jokes on Jorge as well as the Nike team than anything else, which made them want to sign the papers as fast as possible to get rid of him. Ricky, however, found it quite funny and even indulged him by agreeing to scare the porters or play tik-tak-toe on the contract papers while the teams negotiated for hours on end. Cristiano was in good spirits, even driving up to London a few times for the last few sit-downs and Ricky was beggining to recognize him from the times when he watched as Cris interracted with his Sporting teammates, always playful and energetic, even if he was having a hard time away from home.  
  
But today, searching for a parking space at the Nike offices, he's expecting a boring, confused intern at best, who's job is to pick up the papers and drive them over to Manchester for Cris to review. The season is in full blast and Ricky knows that Cristiano is now only interested in training and doing well in every single second of every match. And Ricky's day is about to bore him to death.  
  
He takes the stairs to his office, trying to get himself in the mood to deal with mountains of paper work. His secretary greets him with a look of pure hatred and he vows to bring her lunch and a large coffee when he goes out for his one hour break. Or maybe he'll make it a two hour break and bring her dessert too.  
  
As he sits down in his chair, feeling very CEO-like, he contemplates the fact that his office is actually one of the best things about the job, a place where he feels quite at home after a few years of working in the London base of the company. It's big and bright with a nice, wide desk and a sitting area in a corner by the window that overlooks the river and that weird Gherkin building in the distance. Ricky had also arranged for a TV set, which he claims he needs to watch the progress that the creative team is making on the advertisements he's supervising.   
  
The papers on his desk seem to have grown since the previous day and he sighs, deciding to organize them properly later, once he had the main task of the day over and done with. He fishes around in his drawer, digging out the contract that he has almost no idea about, even though he's been to every meeting it involved. It's not his fault though, he actually wanted to participate, but Cristiano made it almost impossible to concentrate on anything apart from himself.  
  
The intercom rings and he stares at it, wondering if the stash of papers is big enough for him to hide, covered in them, for the entire day.  
  
"Mr Regufe?" the intercom says in his secretary's voice and he groans - if she's using his surname instead of "you twat" then it means that somebody is already there, waiting to see him, "Mr Ronaldo is here to see you."  
  
He jumps, sending the papers flying around him, and gets up to open the door, realizing half-way that that's what the intercom is for.  
  
"Right. Send him in" he mumbles, clearing his throat and trying to look very busy and very professional.  
  
The door opens and Cris walks in, his clothes indicating a jog in the park a lot more than a business meeting. He seems fresh and relaxed, a wide smile on his face.  
  
"So, this is your big boy office, huh?" he says without as much as a greeting and leans across the desk to shake his hand, "I like it, a lot more private than the boring, big ones where we were before."  
  
"Hey, this is the biggest office on this floor, for your information" Ricky answers, a smirk already appearing on his lips as he motions for Cris to sit down, "What are you doing here? I thought you were busy for the next few weeks."  
  
"I am busy, very busy, can't you tell?" Cristiano laughs, making himself comfortable in the chair like he owns the place, "No, actually, I'm in London for a few days. My family just flew in from Portugal."  
  
"Oh! A holiday?"  
  
"No, not really."  
  
Ricky waits for an explanation, but after a few seconds it's clear that he's not getting one.  
  
"Right. So, um, do you want to see the contract?" he asks, rummaging around his desk for a pen.  
  
"No, no, I'll sign it later. I need to take it with me anyway, to show Jorge and make sure you're not framing me into something I don't want to do" Cris winks and gets up suddenly, "Let's go get some breakfast."  
  
"What? Breakfast? Look, I've been at this paperwork for hours, I don't have time-" Ricky begins, but he immediately swallows the words back in as Cristiano places both hands on the desk, bends down and glares at him.  
  
"Don't lie, Ricardo. I saw you pull up just minutes ago. Don't be a buzzkill."  
  
He's clearly high on something, or crazy. Or, he's playing Ricky's game. The one that he invented spontaneously at the party, the "who is in control" game.  
  
"Alright, I give up. But I have a better idea."  
  
He reaches for the phone and does what he would probably do anyway, which is ordering a ridiculous amount of breakfast dishes from the nice little restaurant around the corner. He suspects that the waiter only agrees to bring him food that he could easily pick up himself because he's hoping to one day meet a sport's star in his office. Well, today his dream would come true.  
  
Half an hour and one happy, very well-tipped waiter later, they're sitting in the chairs, looking at the London skyline and eating bacon with fried eggs.  
  
"You know, I've been complaining about this country every chance I get, but I have to admit, this is really good" Ricky says, throwing his empty plate onto the coffee table and leaning back.  
  
"My thoughts exactly" Cristiano actually fucking _giggles_ through a mouthful of toast, "Thank God for that, I was starving and if we went out I would have to have some bullshit salad or otherwise the press would be all over me eating carbs."  
  
He finishes his meal, placing the plate neatly on the table next to Ricky's.   
  
"So, what are we doing now?" he asks, getting up and looking around him, as if there are limitless entertainment options hidden away in the office.  
  
"Um... Signing the contract sounds like fun?" Ricky tries, already knowing that he won't succeed.  
  
"No, I don't feel like doing that yet" Cris decides and squats down in front of Ricky's secret cupboard under the TV.  
  
"No, don't open that" Ricky manages but it's too late, Cris already opening it and staring at his stash of embarassing tapes that are the real reason for having a television set in the office.  
  
"Are you kidding?" Cristiano shouts, digging out a tape Ricky had forgotten he even has, "Chuva de Estrelas? I used to be obsessed with that show."  
  
"Oh my God" Ricky moans, hiding his face in his hands.   
  
"Will it work?" Cris asks, excited like a child that just discovered a treasure at the end of the rainbow.  
  
"No, it definitely will not, put it back."  
  
But Cristiano's already inserting the tape into the VCR and clapping his hands together when the episode appears on the screen, the music blasting throughout the room.  
  
"Shhh! Turn it down, Jesus!" Ricky jumps up to grab the remote, but he actually isn't as irritated as he's trying to seem. This is something he does on a regular basis anyway, especially in the mornings, when there aren't that many people in the building.  
  
"Look, it's Inês Santos! She won that year, God, I remember her!"  
  
Well, so Ricky loves Portuguese singing competition shows from the 90s too, shoot him. In fact, he loves them so much that he decides that one short episode won't do any harm and maybe would even make Cristiano happy enough to do what he came to do and leave as soon as it ends.  
  
But, as they watch the third episode in a row, Cris laying on the floor in front of the TV and singing along, feet dangling in the air to the rythm of all of these horrible, horrible early 90s songs, Ricky realizes with a sinking feeling in his gut that maybe he doesn't really want him to sign the contract as soon as possible after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I realize that none of that was actually how such deals are made, but I got lost in my imagination of how Ricky and Cris first started working together and I hope that it made at least a small amount of sense. Thank you so much for reading this, I'm having sooooo much fun with this fic. I will really, really, REALLY try to post the next chapter sooner than this one.


	3. Chapter 3

**8th September, 2004**

The night before he sees Ricky again, Cristiano dreams of the fires in Madeira.    
  
He walks on the wide shore, the sea water weighing heavier than usual around his feet. Somehow, he can feel the smoke in his lungs and he wants to cough, to take a breath. The sky is dark and the fire's growing on the opposite bank in the distance, the land he had never been to even though it was so close. He can feel the hot, blazing air on his skin, the glimmer of the flames dancing around him as he turns to look back, to return.  
  
But going back is not an option anymore, he knows, because the unknown force pushing him forward has already been set in motion and can't be stopped. His feet move without his control, taking him deeper into the warm water, further into the dark sea. He's not afraid. _There's nothing to be afraid of, nothing to grieve, if you have nothing left to lose._  
  
If his alarm hadn't gone off, he would have dreamt on about the navy, empty sky and the feeling of loss, all the things he would never have. He opens his eyes to see that it's still almost dark outside, the glow of the morning sun just barely visible above the horizon. He realizes that he's back in Portugal, the memory of last night's journey from England vaguely dancing around in his mind that's still in a haze between reality and dreaming. The window's slightly opened and he can feel the hot air that he dreamed about on his body, calling him home, the only home he knows, which isn't Lisbon or England or any other place but the old, worn-out streets of Funchal.   
  
He decides to stay in bed a while longer, the sunrise and silence too eerie and strangely comforting to move. Staring at the empty space on the other side of the bed, he feels a bolt of pain flash through his chest and into his heart, threatening to blow it up like a firework. If he lets himself think about it there will be no going back, he'll lose his focus and everything he had worked for will be gone.  
  
But sometimes it's impossible to keep those thoughts at bay - the terror of all the things he had sacrificed many years ago, when he was too young to realize what it meant. He had denied himself a normal life, an easier life and he had denied himself love. He would never wake up to see someone he loves sleeping beside him, only a subsititute for intimacy at best - somebody he hardly knows and doesn't really feel drawn to. And after those nights he feels even worse, even more alone.   
  
These are the thoughts that he's afraid of the most - the craving of something more, not just the desperate, quiet nights with strangers that he agrees to once in a while just to feel somebody's warmth or the steady beating of their hearts when he lays awake beside them, wanting to escape. In moments like these he wants all the little things, the brief touch of a hand on his shoulder before he leaves for training and a welcome kiss when he comes back home.   
  
" _Merda_ " he swears under his breath and sits up, facing the view of the awakening city. It's a bad moment for evaluating his life choices and he knows it. The game with Estonia is just a few hours away, the anticipation almost buzzing around him as he gets up to throw some cold water over his face. After losing with Greece, he's determined to do this right. It's the World Cup qualifying stage and Cristiano is hungry to dominate the group from the very beggining.  
  
But as he raises his head and looks into the mirror, he sees the emptiness creep back into his eyes. Something's happening to him and he needs it to stop before it takes away everything he had been working for. He needs it to stay forbidden.

*******

_Nobody could have told Cristiano that in 12 years time, Portugal would be champions of Europe. Or that he would be playing and winning for Real Madrid, or that he would have won the Ballon d'Or three times with a strong chance for a fourth. Now, he has to suffer the uncertainty of his greatness because that possibility, that fear of not being the best is the drive he needs to become who he so desperately wants to be._  
  
After the goalless first half, he wants to smash something. He knows that everybody can see it and the tension is rising, his opponents trying to block every step he takes and his teammates trying to console him which does nothing but rile him up even more. He's losing control. His brain commands him to do one thing and his body does something completely different, the sounds of the screaming crowd crushing his skull as he shouts too, at the others, at himself, at the hopelessness he can't stop feeling with every passing minute.   
  
And then the 75th minute comes when he's in the penalty box and suddenly everything goes quiet. His vision focuses on Deco in the distance and then the ball coming his way and he knows he has less than a second to get into the right position. He bends his knees and jumps as high as he can, towering over everybody else. He hears a swish by his left ear and it's his moment, like he's alone on the pitch when he smashes the ball with the side of his head and sends it flying right into the net.  
  
He always blacks out after a goal, the adrenaline raging through his veins dulling everything around him - the sounds, the colors, the feeling of the sweat dripping onto his chest. He just wants to run, to shout, to make this high last forever. But the game goes on and he doesn't even remember his celebration. There are many more goals to come, the ball suddenly falling into the net every few minutes. He can't help but wonder if they would be winning if he hadn't scored, if he hadn't been in the right position when the ball came flying at him leaving no time to get ready. It doesn't really matter though - the match is over and they win 4-0, a victory he wouldn't have believed possible before the first goal of the game. And yet, Cristiano isn't satisfied - his goal was nowhere near the level he knows he can achieve and the game itself is nothing near what he craves. He gets off the pitch quickly, accepting a few pats on the back with a thin smile and almost runs to the changing room. Now that the game ended and his mind loses focus again, he's drifting back in time to a few hours before, to the vulnerability he let himself feel as he lay in bed watching the day emerge from the darkness.  
  
He sits down in the empty changing room, breathing heavily and stretching his aching legs. He's tired, just tired of it all, the journey the day before and the pressure he's feeling back at the club, the pressure to live up to the label of the wonder kid that the british media had stuck to his back like a mean prank. He forces himself to relax, the tension slowly leaving his shoulders as he slouches on the bench and hides his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes.  
  
"So... That was a good game" he hears in the silence and jumps, pulled out of his thoughts like from underwater. He blinks at the figure standing in the doorway, regaining his focus, but he doesn't need to see to know who it is. He knows that voice, better than he wants to.  
  
"Please. You know you're lying" he scoffs, trying to hide his moment of weakness, sitting there defeated and tired. And Ricky smiles, damn him, that smile that says  _everything is going to be alright_. The smile Cris had been trying to forget ever since he spent a whole afternoon staring at it that time in London a few weeks back.  
  
"Okay, it was absolute shit and your goal was pure luck. Is that what you wanted to hear?" Ricky asks, still smiling.  
  
Cris' mouth opens and then closes, his mind completely blank for a second before he realizes what he felt in that brief moment of shock. He had never had to deal with that kind of... defiance. And he feels relieved. Because Ricky's words are exactly what he had thought the minute he scored. He controlled how his body reacted to the ball, but he didn't feel in control enough. And anything that he couldn't fully control was pure luck.  
  
"Thank you" he says, mockingly nodding his head.  
  
"Well, we won anyway. So I guess celebrating is in order."  
  
"We?" Cris asks, a smile dancing on his lips as well. And once again, he's losing control.  
  
Ricky rolls his eyes and walks towards him, sitting down on the bench.  
  
"It's not just your team, you know. You players couldn't prance about on the pitch if it wasn't for the hard work of humble men like me" he says, his tone only half playful.  
  
"I'm sure you work much harder than I do" Cris answers and then something comes over him. It happens often, actually - when he feels like doing something, he does it. And now he feels like getting up and stretching his arms above his head, his shirt sliding up his abs, just to prove his point.  
  
He's falling right into the trap that Ricky set up for him, intentionally or not. Because right now this - whatever it is that they're doing - felt better than any goal he had ever scored. It's as if he can just let go when he's with Ricky, let go of the constant need to control his behaviour or his thoughts - he's just who he is and that's enough. But it's also scary, more so than any opponent he had ever met in the field or any injury that could end everything. Because Cristiano knows what he wanted ever since he was a boy, but he also knows that he can never have it if he's going to be the best at what he does. And Ricky's becoming a huge threat to everything he had ever worked for.  
  
"Congrats on the new job, by the way" he mutters, seemingly only half interested in the conversation as the sounds of the team treading down the corridor become louder and louder.  
  
Ricky looks up at him, his face searching for signs of sincerity in Cristiano's voice.  
  
"Thanks" he says quietly, as if not sure how to react.  
  
"Are you excited to move back to Lisbon?" Cristiano asks before he thinks to stop himself, the spell Ricky has on him compelling him again to just do what he feels like doing, even if he's dangerously close to exposing himself with such questions. Because the truth is that the thought of Ricky not being in England makes him feel a strange kind of anger, anger that floods everything to keep the panic at bay.  
  
He has known for weeks about Ricky's promotion that would bring him closer to the Portugal national team than ever before. And Cris tried to tell himself that it was a good thing. Ricky wouldn't be there anymore, appearing at training randomly like he has anything to do with Manchester United or meeting him at strange, unexpected events in strange, unexpected places. In fact, they probably wouldn't meet at all except for the national team games. And that's a good thing, Cristiano tries to remember as he opens his locker and fishes around for a change of clothes  
  
"Yes, I am actually. I never really felt at home in London" Ricky admits and gets up, looking him straight in the eye, "I'm having a small farewell party though and my friends would die if you came."  
  
Cris doesn't even try to hide his smirk. He grabs a towel and a fresh shirt, breaking the eye-contact and feeling like he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing.  
  
"Right, um. I guess I should show up then" he mumbles, the confidence gone as fast as it appeared.  
  
"Only if you want to" Ricky answers with that damned to hell smile on his full lips as the rest of the team storms into the room.

**31st October 2004**

London is actually one of Cristiano's favourite places.  
  
Probably because he doesn't have to live there, as Ricky told him multiple times when Cris mustered enough bravery to tell him that he doesn't see what's so bad about the city.   
  
"You don't know anything" Ricky laughed, slamming him on the back and sending fireworks through Cristiano's entire body. They had met a few times since the game and Cris gave up on trying to avoid seeing Ricky. He's going away anyway. After he leaves, they will only have to meet once every few months. And that is a good thing.  
  
It's the night of the party and Cristiano knows that it's a bad idea. He should be training or at least resting, not travelling to London just for one night to appear at a club where he could easily be spotted. He spent countless hours debating the pros and cons and discovered that there was only one reason why he was even considering if he should come or not.  
  
And the reason was simple. He wanted to.  
  
He decides to drive to the club alone, singing in the car to relax and get in the mood. The night's still young and the streets in central London are full of people, all of them so different than what he was used to in Portugal. They're loud and full of life, all the colors of their clothes and crazy hairstyles molding into one big crowd of chaos. It's Halloween and he finds the celebration kind of comforting - everything is strange tonight, not just the weird feeling he has in his gut. The painted faces and scary masks cover smiles and excitement. And Cris smiles too. He drives through thousands of lights blowing up every street he takes, people pouring out of pubs and restaurants into the pleasant October evening. He feels good and at peace - he'll just show up out of politness, spend a few hours with Ricky's friends and then Ricky will be gone. And that is a good thing.  
  
As he pulls up at the club and lets himself be escorted to the VIP entrance, Cristiano's actually getting quite pumped about the evening. Maybe he'll even have fun after all. It has been ages since he had a night out.  
  
And then he walks in, the music hits him like a blizzard on a cold night and it becomes obvious that he will not be having fun. Because when the lights explode with colors above the dancefloor, his vision immediately lands on the one person he would really rather not see dancing. He shifts slightly, standing by the door, when Ricky disappears in the crowd for a second and re-emerges again, a drink in his hand, the white shirt clinging perfectly to his broad back as he sways his hips and laughs at something that some girl is whispering to him.  
  
Cris feels the blood drain from his face, trying to force himself to take a step forward. There's something about Ricky, something about the way he moves and smiles and just _is_  that makes Cristiano want to touch him, even with just his fingertips or the brush of a shoulder. And realizing that wish is terrifying.  
  
" _Boa noite_ , Cristiano" Ricky calls when he sees him and even his own name sounds so different and fresh in Ricky's mouth, "You're late."  
  
He is late, indeed. But as he approaches Ricky and bends down to press a cheek to his, his entire body tenses and he decides that there's only one way out of this situation. The way he choses every time he feels a million eyes on him - on the pitch or in front of the cameras. He has to be as confident and arrogant as he possibly can.  
  
"I'm never late. Everybody else is just early" he says and suddenly all he can hear is Ricardo's laugh.  
  
"Seriously? You can do better than that cheesy line. Come on."  
  
With that, Ricky grabs him by the arm - a firm, but simultaneously gentle grip - and drags him towards the lounge where a waitress has just brought a tray of shots. Cris lets himself be introduced to everyone and can't help but acknowledge the fact that most of these people don't seem like Ricky's friends at all. They obviously all work with him, at one departament of Nike or the other, and Cris is instantly set on edge by their business talk over the drinks. He politely declines one when somebody proposes a toast and glances at Ricky instead, getting a crinkly-eyed smile in return.  
  
And in that moment, in the loud club filled with people he doesn't even want to like, Cristiano realizes that Ricky's smile is what he was trying not to think about that day in Portugal before the game with Estonia and a lot of other days after that. There's no denying it anymore, no turning back from the realization he had with a few men before - that they could not and would not be friends. He learned how to deal with it over the years, how to suppress the yearning for what he knows he wants and he's not going to give in now. Besides, Ricky's going away so there's no threat of it getting out of hand anyway. _And that is a good thing._

"So, when are you leaving exactly?" he asks, or rather shouts into Ricky's ear, just to be sure when he'll be able to breathe a sigh of relief.  
  
"Tomorrow" Ricky answers and Cris winces, "But let's not talk about that now. Let's dance."  
  
"I don't dance" he says with a smirk that he put on for the evening like a Halloween mask.  
  
"I know that's a lie. Those hips were made for dancing" Ricky laughs and Cris freezes - that's exactly what he was afraid of. Recently, Ricky's jokes were getting more and more shameless and he hates the anxious feeling that comes with them.  
  
"Alright. I dance only for those that are worthy of the sight, then."  
  
"Oh I see. Well, it's my party so I refuse to dance alone again and obviously I can't expect much from this bunch" Ricky's eyes point to the group of his so-called friends, "So if you don't, neither will I and that would make me feel very, very disappointed."  
  
"Well, I refuse to be blackmailed, so..." Cris fires back, desperately trying to make his face look as blank as possible.  
  
"Oh come on. I challenge you to show these stiff Brits how real men dance" Ricky says and pulls him onto the dancefloor without even waiting for an answer. To Cris, challenges are like a curse, something that rules him and can't be refused. And he knows that Ricky knows that too.  
  
They make their way to the dancefloor, elbowing people out of the way. Ricky turns around and looks him straight in the eye as the music picks up and he raises his hands above his head with a cheeky smile that makes Cris' heart flip. Ricky's attitude is something he admires - in a way they are the same, arrogant in not caring what anyone thinks but Ricky manages to make it something positive while Cris always seems, and feels, on edge. And maybe that's the reason why Cris wants to be closer and closer, moving towards Ricky without control, as if trying to get some of his warmth, his cheerful glow. He relaxes his muscles and just goes with it, closing his eyes and letting the rythm pump through his body like blood. When he opens them again, he can't tell how much time has passed and he sees that Ricky is watching him, with an expression that he can't name.  
  
"What are you staring at?" he asks, but it comes out too quiet for Ricky to hear. A few songs come and go, Ricky mouthing the lyrics to himself if he knows them and Cris trying not to return the favour by staring too hard. And then, he's over it.  
  
"Right, I'm leaving and I think you should ditch your friends and come with me" he says, louder this time and Ricky motions for him to lead the way.  
  
"Thank God, I've been looking for a reason to leave since I came here" he mutters as they walk out into the corridor by the VIP entrance.  
  
"So, what do you want to do?" Cris asks. He didn't really expect Ricky to leave with him and he doesn't really have a plan. He just wants to have his undivided attention, to let himself want it just for one evening.  
  
"Let's just take a walk and see where we end up."  
  
"Um, I don't think I can do that. I probably shouldn't walk around the streets of London just like that, you know? A lot of people here hate me" Cris laughs and Ricky nods again.  
  
"Right" he says finally after a few seconds of awkward silence, "Let's drive around, then. We can take my car."  
  
"Alright, I'll drive."  
  
"I don't think you can handle driving it. It needs a lot of patience" Ricky says as he fishes the keys out of his pocket.  
  
"Haven't you been drinking?" Cris asks, the picture of Ricky dancing with a fancy drink in his hand still flashing in his mind like a neon sign.  
  
"Those were non-alcoholic drinks, okay mom? I just like little umbrellas in my juice, for your information" Ricky grins, shrugging. "I'm driving all the way home tomorrow, remember?"  
  
"You're driving all the way to Portugal?"   
  
"Well, I can't leave all my stuff here. And my car. Not all of us are football stars, you know."  
  
His tone is firm and Cristiano's grateful for it. Giving up control and just going with what someone else decides is strangely comforting, something he doesn't experience often. He climbs into the passenger's seat, without another word, as Ricky starts the engine and backs up out of the parking space. They drive onto the busy street around the corner of the club and Cris instantly feels at ease, lost in the long line of traffic twirling around central London, anonymous in the crowds surrounding them on every side.   
  
Ricky doesn't ask where he wants to go, as if they have silently agreed to let the streets take them where they wanted. It's dark and cosy in Ricky's small car and Cris shifts in his seat, making himself comfortable, resting his head on the bolster. He's staring, he knows, but he doesn't care anymore so he just lets himself observe Ricky's profile as he keeps one hand on the wheel and fiddles with the radio with the other. _Behind blue eye_ s is just ending and Eminem comes on, making Cris jump and snort as Ricky lets out a shout of excitement and raps the first few verses perfectly.   
  
"What?" he demands, noticing Cris' perplexed expression.  
  
"Nothing, you just don't seem like a rap connoisseur" Cris mumbles, bobbing his head. He waits until the chorus ends and joins in for the second verse, getting into it more and more as Ricky laughs and adds in the parts that are too fast for him to catch his breath.  
  
"Well, I guess there are a lot of things we don't know about each other" Cris winks and Ricky laughs even harder, taking a turn.   
  
"Not a lot of time to find out now. And we could have had so many great duets."  
  
"I'm not the one that decided to drive all the way back to Portugal all of a sudden. Don't blame me for robbing the rap industry of what could have been" Cristiano says and immediately wishes he had phrased that differently.  
  
They sit in silence for a while, Cris looking out the window into the night. The river appears in the gaps between the buildings and he thinks of how it goes on and on, into a place he can't even imagine, so far away but somehow still here. He feels a bolt of anger flash through his mind again, imagining Ricky driving away in this ridiculous car, rapping his ridiculous songs.  
  
"We should probably find our way back" he says suddenly, without planning it, "You have a big day tomorrow."  
  
"I have time" Ricky answers calmly, "I'll just set off when I feel like it. Lisbon won't go anywhere."  
  
"Sometimes I wish I could go back too."  
  
Ricky looks at him, a crease forming on his forehead.  
  
"You can do whatever you want to, you know that right?"   
  
"Not really. I've signed contracts and made promises and I don't think I could get out of them if I wanted to" Cris admits and it's harder to hear it than to think it in the safe, closed spaced of his own head, "Not that I would, I mean I'm happy at the club."  
  
"Right. You're happy that you achieved everything you set out to do but are you happy apart from that?" Ricky asks and Cris goes silent. He wonders if he had ever heard someone ask him if he was happy before.  
  
"Not everything" he mumbles, fixing his gaze on the darkness that now surrounds them as they drive along the river, leaving the center of the city behind them.  
  
"Hmm?" Ricky hums and turns down the radio.  
  
"I haven't achieved everything. I'm not even close."  
  
"Okay. But if you don't learn to care for what the real Cristiano wants, the star of Cristiano the football star will fade too."  
  
It's Cristiano's turn to look at him now, his words slipping into his mind and finding their place to stay there for a long time to come.  
  
"There's only one of me. It's not like me and the football player that I am are two different people."  
  
"That's not what I see" Ricky says and does what he does best - turns his head slowly and stares right back at him, his eyes reflecting Cris' own, opened wide and frightened.  
  
_And what do you see?_ Cris wants to ask, but he can't. There's no point, it's already over and he can't open himself up even more to this man that he had known for years but never like this. This is different, this is an ocean of things that he can't have and he has to keep himself on the surface. Because when it becomes dark again the next day, Ricky will no longer be there.  
  
And a few hours later, when Cris throws himself onto the hotel bed and burries his face in his hands, he knows: that is not at all a good thing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a slight trigger warning for this chapter, concerning mentions of an unstable childhood or family situation. I'd just like to say that I have no idea what Ricky's childhood was like, so I will be changing his parents' names if I ever use them out of respect. There will be some more trigger warnings in future chapters, mainly for psychological trauma and child abuse.
> 
> Please remember that this is a work of pure fiction and a way for me to deal with my own issues. I just write what I feel, sometimes literally speaking, so keep in mind that the relationship described in this story might not be perfect, at times it might even be a bit toxic or dangerous in an all-consuming way. It'll get happier though, I promise.
> 
> Playlist for this chapter: https://open.spotify.com/user/diatado/playlist/50KkysEbUyIG3s821xzaYZ  
> I listened to all these songs while writing it so I hope you enjoy listening to them while reading :)

**14th November, 2004**

Two weeks after moving back to Portugal, Ricky sits at the kitchen table thinking about England.

He's falling into a pool of self-pity, he knows, concentrating too hard on how miserable he is to do anything productive. A cup of coffee is steaming between his hands, getting colder and colder until he no longer feels like drinking it. Everything else is becoming colder too, his thoughts getting less specific and more dangerous. He's been taught to deal with his emotions so that's what he's trying to do. He analyses the reasons why he felt like crying in his car for most of the way to Portugal, but couldn't. It's no surprise - he hasn't cried since he was a boy. And yet he wanted to, needed to, speeding through the highways, his foot pressing the gas pedal into the ground.

" _Amor_ , what's wrong?" Catarina had exclaimed when he showed up on her doorstep, his face swollen almost, the unshead tears throbbing in his eyes. He didn't tell her anything that night, just fell asleep in her bed, in the house that had been his home before, when he needed one. She woke him up early the next day, worried crinkles around her eyes as she sat him down and asked all the right questions for hours on end.   
  
He's still there now, thinking about the flat he rented just a few streets away that is empty and dark because he's too scared to be alone. Most of all though, he thinks about Cristiano. The laugh that makes him scrunch his nose and cover his mouth with his hand like there's something to be ashamed of or his skin, smooth like spilled chocolate milk, always soft. He can't shake the thought of Cristiano's body leaning against the wall in his office, arms folded on his broad chest like he has to control them, like they want to touch. 

Catarina walks into the room just as he's pouring the cold coffee into the sink and, without a comment, turns on the kettle for a second one. She's beautiful, in a strong, toxicating way and he has lost count of all the times when he wondered what could have been if he was able to love her, just love her like he knew he should since he was a boy old enough to know. He doesn't even remember the day they met, she was just always there, following him around until he let her in through the slips of his loneliness and let her be his friend. Her family got used to him too, after the first few times he run to their house when his own was a battlefield in the night. It didn't work the other way around, though. _Why don't you ask that Catarina out_ his mother would ask when they got older, _why don't you invite her over more often_. He never said it: because she's the only thing I have to myself. Someone I don't have to share.  
  
"Did you get some sleep?" Catarina asks, refilling his mug and sitting down at the table, the aerial fabric of her kimono dancing around her legs, her heavy, black hair tucked away in a messy bun.  
  
"Yes" he lies, "I'm fine,"  
  
"Stop that, Ricardo, I've known you long enough to know when you're about to sneeze."  
  
"Why do you ask if you already know the answer then?" he snaps and then regrets it, the raise of her perfectly arched eyebrows enough to make him shut up and sit down.  
  
"That's not the point" she huffs and he feels like he always feels with her - like nothing has changed since they were kids growing up in Matosinhos, "The point is that you haven't slept properly since you came here and that you're repeating all of your old patterns. And I refuse to just watch that happen."  
  
It's true, he knows it is. A pattern of escaping, running away from the things that he can't deal with but can't forget either, like something is chasing him from city to city, from islands to mainlands and back again. Now he's in square one, hidden away in Catarina's house like he's a fucking teenager. A part of him wants to block her out, refuse to acknowledge that she's right and tell her that he'll get out of her hair. The mistake was easy to make, but they weren't kids anymore and he knew his presence wasn't as out of the ordinary as it once was.  
  
"Hey" she says, leaning across the table to put her hand on his, "We'll figure this out, okay?"  
  
He nods faintly, the vulnerability he allows himself around her soothing and frustrating him at the same time.   
  
"There are only two options" Catarina says matter-of-factly, "you either try to forget about the whole thing and move on."  
  
"That's not really an option, though. I've tried that and look where I am."  
  
"Okay. So you have to act on it."   
  
Ricky swallows and looks her in the eyes. The warmth he finds there somehow makes him feel even worse.  
  
"I can't do that."  
  
"Stop telling yourself what you can't do" Catarina raises her voice, throwing her hands in the air, "Why can't you just tell me who this person is? What makes him so amazing that you think he's too good for you?"  
  
"It's not that I think he's too good... I mean maybe, but not just that. I don't even know what it is that I want and even if I wanted it, he would never be with me. Ever" he tries but he knows that she sees right through his lie. They wouldn't be sitting there if he didn't know exactly what he wants. The only person he's convincing is himself.   
  
"You won't know that for sure if you don't try."  
  
Yes, he wants to say. Yes, but it's easier not to know.  
  
He says nothing, standing up and walking up to the double glass doors instead. He looks into Catarina's garden, her most prized possession as she always says, the trees still juicy green in the morning sun. There's a path cutting through it and leading towards a gazebo, a huge rose bush surrounding it like a wall. It's beautiful and he smiles. It's exactly what they always talked about, the perfect picture Catarina used to paint for him when they walked back home from school. It seemed like a fairytale back then, a place that would never actually exists, but she did it, she moved away and recreated it, brought it into reality.   
  
"Remember that time when your mum got that tiny tent from a charity shop and let us spend the night in it?" he asks and Catarina snorts into her coffee, her laugh radiating around the room like it always does. Years ago, it used to sound like freedom, now it sounds like all the things he would never have.  
  
"Of course I do, I could spend my whole life in that tent and be completely satisfied. What does it have to do with anything though?"  
  
Neither of them says anything about what happened later, Ricky's father's hands ripping into the tent and dragging him out into the cold night. They rarely talk about the bad things from that other life, making a silent vow to remember the happy, carefree moments even if they never laster for longer than an afternoon.  
  
"Nothing. It just popped into my head" Ricky nods slowly, not turning around. The sun rises higher by the minute, it seems, pouring through the windows, almost blinding him. And as it flashes, reflecting on the glass, he sees them from years ago: two kids in the garden and all they have is hope.  
  
"You know what?" he says, his voice suddenly firmer and calmer at the same time, "You're right. I should do something about it."  
  
"Yeah?" Catarina jumps up to join him at the window, her almond-shaped, mahogany eyes looking up at him with excitement, "Why the sudden change?"  
  
"I don't know. I'm just tired of feeling this way. Not knowing is safer, but I just realized something. That boy in the tent wasn't afraid of taking risks, even if he knew that the consequences could be horrible. But he took them anyway, just to see if he could."  
  
She stares at him like she's about to clap or fucking cry, he isn't sure. But he knows that she agrees with him on a level so deep he feels something almost physically falling into place in his chest.  
  
"I want to be that boy again" he says and she smiles the brightest smile.   
  
"Right," she decides, squeezing his hand and pulling him back towards the table, "We need a plan."

**16th November, 2004**

He doesn't really have a plan, a trick to fix the way he feels, or an idea how to keep Cris still for a minute or two, so he could look at him and wonder: _how can this work?_   Cristiano is the high tide of a river in a storm, always pushing forward, or the thunder that disappears to hit again miles further. There is no way of taiming him. There is no trap, no scheme that could force him to listen to what Ricky has to say, even if he planned to say anything more than his usual _boa noite Cristiano_ when they meet on the plane to Luxembourg the day before the match. Cris doesn't say anything, just nods slightly like he barely knows him and Ricky smiles, it's exactly what he was expecting. The cold, professional Cristiano is here now, no trace of the hyper and funny boy from a few weeks ago. But as they lift off and he watches the world getting smaller, Ricky knows that the overwhelming need to just be close to him doesn't vanish anyway. Now that they are just a few seats away, it's getting even more persistent and heavy, like a magnetic force that grows in strength when close to it's source.  
  
They don't talk the first night, Ricky doesn't even look his way. He tells himself - just one more night, one more night to see if I can fight this, make it go away. He hides away in his room and stays awake till it's getting bright outside, only dozing off for an hour or two in the early hours of the morning. Then, he takes a long, hot shower and walks downstairs to see that the team has already had breakfast and is off training. He grabs a croissant and walks out into the street, a drizzle of cold raindrops hitting his shoulders as he looks around, curious of this strange place he never thought he would see.   
  
He doesn't go to practice, even though a part of him wants to watch Cris goof around with the others and light up the empty stadium with his electric energy. He doesn't go because he's tired and because he's too scared to be near Cristiano when it's not just the two of them. He feels exposed and raw, like anyone can see that there's something different, something so, so wrong. He's lost before he's even begun, Ricky knows and yet, he can't silence the part of him that still wants to try.  
  
There's a tiny voice, a whisper in his mind that says: _maybe it's true_. Because something has obviously changed, something is off about the way Cristiano holds himself around him now, as if shielding his entire body from his silly jokes or silent touches. Something that wasn't there when they were negotiating Cris' contract. It seems like that was years ago, a time when Cris didn't feel the need to keep his guard up around him and was entirely himself, singing in his office and not controlling the snort in his laugh as he rolled around on the carpet in front of the TV. And just a few weeks later they were in the car, driving around London at night but Cristiano looked like he wasn't even there, cutting Ricky off every time he tried to touch on a real subject, not just semi-playful banter that didn't even get much of a response. After thinking about it obsessively almost, Ricky realized - the only thing that was different than before was the fact that he was moving back to Portugal. The shift in Cris' behaviour was obviously connected to it and that meant only one thing. He was angry. And if he was angry, he cared.  
  
After dinner, Ricky walks back downstairs after a day of trying to do some work. He has an honest intent to just sit down at the bar, have a few drinks, see how the evening goes. He knows that most of the team will go to sleep early so he won't be interrupted. For once, he decides not to wonder if Cristiano is back yet and he tries to relax. The game is tomorrow and he promises not to do as much as look in Cris' direction before it's over.  
  
He does it, though, without even wanting to. As he steps into the foyer, there's a glimpse of Cristiano's tall figure as he disappears into a hallway leading to the hotel pool. Ricky could laugh really, just burst out laughing like he's going insane because if he walked in a second later, Cris would already be gone and his complete confusion wouldn't come back down crushing him into the marble floor. He feels his muscles tighten and he fights to regain control of his mind, his foot already taking a step in the same direction. He stops it though, turning towards the bar instead, just like he intented to. This is not the right moment or the right place. He will not try to ruin Cristiano's mood before the game, even if he doubts he has the power to do so.  
  
That's what he tells himself as he takes a seat and smiles at the bartender apologetically - he's the only one there. He orders a glass of wine and looks around hopelessly - there is nothing there that could divert his attention. Before he knows it, he's letting himself slip back into the familiar state of daydreaming but in the worst, most anxious way.  
  
“I’m sorry, sir?” the bartender asks in perfect English after about twenty minutes and Ricky’s chest tightens even more. He knows where this is going, “The bar is going to be closed for the next few hours, we are reserved for a private business meeting. Can I offer you another glass at the rooftop bar?”  
  
Ricky waves his hand, mumbling something about going to sleep, and finishes his glass in one. Everything is pointing him in the direction he’s desperately trying to avoid but as he passes the hallway that Cris had taken, he knows: he can’t keep doing this forever. If anything, the situation between them needs to be amended. He can’t focus on anything, much less his actual job, if every game he attends is to be preceded by this unexplained atmosphere of silence and tension that he can’t even name. He makes the turn into the corridor without a second thought and then takes the stairs to the underground floor where the pool is. It’s empty and hot, the walls paved with white tiles, the lights dim. Ricky walks into the changing rooms where a single bag is lying on the floor by an open locker, Cristiano’s clothes neatly folded inside.  
  
The pool is nothing short of spectacular, with four wide tracks and a jacuzzi bubbling quietly in the back. Everything is white except for the cobalt depth of the water and the dark shadow of Cristiano’s body as he dives, just a ripple on the surface signalizing that he was ever there. Ricky blinks, mesmerized - the damp, warm air hitting his lungs as he leans against the wall, waiting.  
  
Cris appears on the other side, his back turned to where Ricky is standing. He doesn’t notice him yet, resting his arms on the landing and bowing his head to let the water drip off his face. He’s breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling, the muscles of his back flexing just above the water line. Then, suddenly, he lets go and tumbles backwards into the water, turning over under the surface and curving his body in a perfect arch to emerge again in the middle of the pool. He takes a few precise laps of a lazy breaststroke and stops, wagging his legs in the water.  
  
“Foda-se!” he shouts, coughing, his startled gaze burning holes in Ricky’s body, “You scared me!”  
  
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to” Ricky says, probably not loud enough for him to hear. Cristiano is swimming towards him and suddenly Ricky feels sad. This boy is not real, he can’t be real.  
  
He walks up to the edge all the same, the relentless force pulling him towards Cris as real as a hand on his back.   
  
“Help me” Cristiano reaches out, drops of water trickling down his hand and onto the tiles. He looks up, his eyes pale, sunglow gold.  
  
Ricky shivers and hesitates. He wants to give him everything.  
  
"Come on, I'm not going to pull you in" Cris says and laughs, his hand still raised, wet fingers glistening in the blueish light. Ricky bows down and grips his wrist, Cristiano's accelerated pulse pumping through his own skin.  
  
Cris hoists himself up on his other hand and lets go when his feet hit the ground, sending a cascade of water drops everywhere. Ricky tries not to stare, but it's impossible - Cristiano is buzzing with youth and he's beautiful, from the cheeky smirk on his slightly chapped lips to the heavy breaths lifting his chest, like he can taste the air, like he wants it all. They stand face to face, close enough for Ricky to smell the chlorine on Cristiano's skin.   
  
"So, did you want something?" Cris asks, turning away to pick up a towel off the floor. He's doing it again, being distant, bordering on plain rude. It's like a challenge that Ricky can never ignore.  
  
"No" he says slowly, "I was just looking around."  
  
"Well, you seem to always bump into me when you're just looking around, don't you?" it sounds like a joke but Cristiano's voice is sharp, different than just a minute ago, and Ricky feels something angry well up in his own throat.  
  
"It's hard not to when we're staying in the same hotel" he says, fighting to stay as calm as possible, "Besides, you're part of the reason that I'm here and I've been meaning to talk to you since we arrived. There are some things we need to go over, concerning your contract, so it would make it a lot easier for me if you weren't trying so hard to avoid me."  
  
His mouth is dry and his voice is failing him with every word. He knows that he's not convincing at all. They both know the truth: he did follow Cristiano and business is the last thing he wants to talk about.  
  
"Avoid you? Please, I have an important day tomorrow and I'm honestly not investing my energy into actively avoiding you."  
  
Ricky knew Cristiano would shield himself with the "important day" argument, but it infuriates him either way.  
  
"Listen, I don't know why talking to me is such a big problem all of a sudden but we can't-" he starts but doesn't finish, because Cris' eyes snap up at him and what he sees in them scares him even more.  
  
"Problem? It is a problem, you are not _there_ anymore, Ricky. You're the one that made talking to you basically impossible" Cris shouts almost and Ricky steps back. He feels like he's going insane. Because what he hears in Cristiano's voice is hurt.  
  
There are a million things he wants to say but, once again, he says nothing. Cristiano looks scared too, scared by what he just said and by the uncertainty of what comes next. It's like there's a wild animal between them, ready to attack any second now and they're both trying not to set it off.  
  
"Look" Ricky says finally, his gaze too heavy to lift up to Cris' face, falling down his body, taking it in, "You need to concentrate on the game tomorrow, like you said. We'll talk after."  
  
It sounds more like a threat than a promise but Cristiano doesn't react. Ricky dares to glance at him and he's staring back, mouth slightly open, water pooling at the crease of his upper lip. His eyes are wide, disbelieving and Ricky knows that he's not crazy, this is not his imagination, something lingers between them and Ricky can only hope that Cris is as lost as he is.  
  
Cristiano nods slowly and runs a hand through his wet hair, an unruly curl falling through his fingers to bounce lazily on his forehead. Then, without another word, he turns and jumps back into the pool, breaking the surface silently, like he doesn't want Ricky to notice that he's gone.

  
*******

Ricky doesn't watch the game. He doesn't even stand in the tunnel, but he hears them anyway: the loud gasps resonating through the stadium after every goal and then the deafening roar of the cheering crowds. There must have been about five or six already, he thinks, but he's somehow incapable of being excited. After full time he realizes that he's barely taken a breath since he woke up in the morning. He feels the passing time painfully tying a loop around his neck - each minute is bringing him closer to going back to Lisbon, to the days and weeks and months without Cristiano, without as much as a chance.  
  
Suddenly, not knowing becomes the worst possible option and he just can't carry on anymore. I can't survive another day, he thinks over and over, not to mention anything more. He still doesn't understand anything about the previous evening at the pool, he still can't help but believe that there's only one explanation for Cristiano's behaviour. That he knows it too, that what they have become can no longer be ignored.  
  
He paces up and down the locker room, shaking from the nerves or maybe the cold. The final whistle of the game rings in his ears even though he can barely hear it but it's like it's for him, for them, to do something before it's too late. He sits down and gets up again, ready to leave and wait on the bus, until they get back to the hotel. Yes, that's what he should do, so they can talk in peace and he can say what he needs to say: _please, don't treat me like I mean nothing to you. Please tell me I'm not the only one feeling this way._  
  
He's in the doorway when Cris runs into him, almost knocking him off his feet.   
  
"I'm sorry, I was just leaving. Let's talk back at the hotel, yeah?" he says, not looking at him. There's a pause and Ricky hopes that Cris will agree silently, so that he doesn't have to feel so, so stupid.  
  
"No, wait" is what Cris says instead and Ricky freezes, "They're all still on the pitch. I was hoping you'd be here."  
  
"Okay" Ricky agrees, his mind completely blank. He takes a few steps back, Cris following him, refusing to break eye contact, "I didn't watch the game, did we win?"  
  
"Yes, we did" Cris says hurriedly. His hair is flat against his forehead, his skin covered with a thin layer of sweat, cheeks flushed, "Listen, I'm sorry. I don't know why I was so irritated yesterday."  
  
They're still looking at each other and Cris is furrowing his brows, he looks like he's in pain. His gaze is so intense Ricky feels shivers running up and down his spine, he's like electricity, an explosion under Ricky's skin.  
  
"It's okay. You were just being a brat like always" he manages but what he says doesn't matter, because Cris takes a step forward and they're almost pressing up against each other, almost touching and Ricky doesn't dare to move.  
  
Cristiano smiles, his eyelids falling as he fixes his gaze on Ricky's lips and Ricky wants to scream.   
  
"Well, the thing is" Cris says, quietly now, like no one in the whole world can hear what he tells him, "You're the only one that makes me feel this way."  
  
Ricky doesn't understand, he can hear the words but doesn't know what they mean, all he can think about is how close Cristiano is leaning towards him, how strained his voice sounds. For a second, everything is still, Cris smells like rain and somebody else's touch and Ricky doesn't care about anything anymore. All that matters are his fingers gripping Cris's shirt, crumpling the fabric in his fist to pull him closer, until he feels Cristiano's hurried breath on his cheek. And Cris lets him, without hesitation, he falls into Ricky's arms and glances into his eyes one last time before closing the space between their lips.   
  
Ricky pulls Cris' bottom lip into his mouth, his hand still holding onto his soaked t-shirt and the other on his back, turning him around. They fall against the locker, Cris's back crashing into it with a loud bang but he smiles into the kiss, raising his hand to grab a fistful of Ricky's hair. He's impatient, fast and Ricky doesn't know if it's because he remembers that someone is about to walk in on them any minute now or maybe that's just the way Cristiano is, always wanting more, always hungry for everything all at once. Ricky feels Cris' heart pounding next to his and kisses him harder, opening his mouth with his tongue, pressing his chest into Cristiano's body.  
  
He lets him go after what feels like eternity, but still isn't enough, the sound of someone coming too dangerous to ignore although he wants to, God, he wishes he could. Cris is slouched against the locker, his knees bent like they're about to give in and he's wiping his lips on his sleeve, the cheeky little shit. He's smiling into his arm, trying to hide it, but Ricky sees, he sees everything about him and he can't decide if he wants to laugh or cry.  
  
"What now?" Cris asks in a whisper that Ricky can barely hear over the footsteps in the corridor.  
  
"Well, first of all, we should stop having those... moments, in locker rooms. It's frustrating" Ricky smiles and leans down to press a kiss into Cris' neck. He takes in a breath of his hot, sweet skin that will have to last for as long as they don't see each other.  
  
"I should go" he says, his heart breaking in his chest and with a glance into Cris' wide, darkened eyes, he turns around and leaves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for this chapter referring to animal abuse, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of an unstable childhood and a kind of panic attack I guess but hopefully nothing too hard to read. If any of those things trigger you, please don't feel pressured to read. I love you very much <3

**November 18th, 2004**

Cris feels like his head is split in half.

One part of him is still thinking about the game, the rush and adrenaline still circling around his system, the chanting ringing in his ears. He feels it in his body, the ache in his calves and thighs like his skin is about to break but he's thankful for it, this reminder that's constantly with him, every day.  
  
The other part is nothing but the heart-stopping thought of what happened after he walked off the pitch, the courage he felt in that locker room when he decided:  _fuck it, I need to know_. He touches his lips and they feel like they're not his own anymore, not satisfied by just the mere memory of Ricky kissing him like they could never do it again, like it was the only kiss they would ever share.   
  
Cristiano walks down to the lobby early like they agreed, trying to control the chills when he lets his body remember the feeling of Ricky's chest pressed into his, the firm hand on the small of his back. These thoughts are like a forest in his mind and he's lost in it, searching for a way out so he can make decisions, important decisions he knows he won't be able to avoid. It's impossible though, not now, not when he's about to meet Ricky downstairs and see that smile again, the smile that he hates because he can't keep pretending like it's not the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.  
  
And there it is as he walks across the foyer, Ricky standing by the reception desk, all smiles and sparkly eyes when he spots him from a distance and Cristiano suddenly doesn't remember how to walk. He trips over his own feet and Ricky snorts loud enough for him to hear. _Don't blush, don't you dare fucking blush_ , Cris thinks to himself as he approaches him but he's kind of laughing too.  
  
"Honestly, how do you even score goals?" Ricky whispers as a greeting and Cris rolls his eyes, his cheeks burning. He's staring at his shoes like a schoolboy and he hates it but he can't bring himself to look into Ricky's smiling eyes, he can't look back into the day before, at Ricky's half parted lips.  
  
"Shut up" is all he says and then Ricky grabs his elbow and guides him through the doors of the elevator. The touch makes Cristiano want to lean into it, wrap himself around Ricky's fingers, but he just straightens his back instead, his muscles stiff like he doesn't feel anything at all.  
  
"How was your night?" Ricky asks once they're inside. They're alone and the tight space is just too much to handle, there are mirrors everywhere and Cris fights not to look at himself, not to see how young and foolish he must look. He can't look at Ricky either so he decides to fix his gaze on the reflection of Ricky's back, the cotton sweater he's wearing making him look impossibly soft.  
  
"Um... Long" Cristiano answers, watching Ricky turn his head in the mirror and freezing when his reflection stares right at him.  
  
"Why are you checking me out in the mirror?" Ricky laughs again, "I'm right here. Look at me."  
  
So Cristiano does, because he would do anything Ricky asks him to. He tilts his head up and clenches his jaw, their eyes meeting and Cristiano's pulse pumping madly in his ears.  
  
"You know..." Ricky says slowly, taking half a step towards him, "We could pretend like yesterday never happened, if you want."  
  
There's a loud beep and the doors open, the bright lights of the corridor invading the closed, dark space of the elevator. Ricky walks out first, not demanding an answer and Cris follows, because there's nothing else he can do.  
  
They walk towards the entrance to the rooftop bar that's still obviously closed, a sleepy waitress hurrying to clean the row of white tables, a coffee machine already humming gently in the background. Ricky taps on the glass door and waves when the bartender looks up, clearly annoyed.   
  
"Excuse me" Ricky chirps and Cris leans against the wall next to the door, because Ricky is being embarrassing but also kind of adorable, "I was hoping we could get a cup of coffee."  
  
The man gives him a deadly look, then sighs and puts on a fake smile.   
  
"I'm sorry, sir, the bar is still closed. Breakfast will be served in the restaurant in half an hour."  
  
"Yes, come on, Ricardo. We'll have something downstairs, thank you" Cris says, stepping out from behind the wall to offer him an apologetic smile.   
  
"Oh! I'm sorry sir, I didn't notice you. Please, come in. We'll have a table ready in no time" the bartender exclaims, the smile looking less fake as he snaps his fingers at the waitress and she hurries off towards a nice lounge by the wall-high window overlooking the hotel gardens.   
  
"I knew that being around you would have it's perks" Ricky whispers into Cris' ear before setting off for the counter. Cristiano opens his mouth to assure him that the man couldn't have possibly known who he was, that hotel staff is always asked to treat all the players with special care. That when he's around him, he doesn't want to be who he always is - the revelation, the golden boy that has no road ahead of him except for the one that leads to the top. But Ricky is already ahead of him, leaving him behind and Cris shuffles around silently until the waitress nods at him to come sit at the now sparkling table. He thanks her and walks over to the window to take in the view for a while. It's a beautiful day, the sky so blue that Cristiano can't believe the color is natural, something that was created just to make him wonder.  
  
He turns around, daring to look at Ricky without him noticing, his heart somersaulting in his chest. Ricky is taking out his wallet, twisting his body in a wonderful display of his broad shoulders and a scrap of caramel skin peeking out from under his sweater. He doesn't break eye-contact with the bartender, giving him the warmest smile as he pays. If the sky is radiant, then Ricky is the sun.  
  
They slip into the lodge, facing each other and Cris stretches on the soft settee. It's nice and fluffy, Cristiano sinks into it, feeling his muscles relax, Ricky's presence somehow making him feel cozy and calm.  
  
"Tired?" Ricky asks, his face serious but the smile still dancing around in his eyes.  
  
"Mhmm..." Cristiano almost purrs and coughs at the sound of his own voice, "Yeah, I'm fine though. I'll have a nap on the plane."  
  
"Going straight back to England?"  
  
Cris feels his throat tighten, as though his body doesn't want him to answer. He still has the whole morning and the flight back to Lisbon, he doesn't want to think about it, not yet. He nods slowly, hoping that Ricky sees him wishing to say no.  
  
"I have a game in a few days" he says, "I'm changing planes at the airport in Lisbon."  
  
It's Ricky's turn to nod as they sit there in silence before the waitress brings their order, a tall glass of iced coffee for Ricky and a herbal tea for Cristiano.  
  
"I see you know that I don't drink coffee, you creep" he smirks, taking the cup into both hands, feeling the warmth spread all the way to his shoulders.  
  
"What can I say? I read the tabloids" Ricky winks.  
  
"Oh yeah? What else do they say about me?" Cris laughs and he knows he's pushing it, riling Ricky up, but he doesn't care.  
  
"That you're arrogant, selfish and spoiled" Ricky answers, not missing a beat.  
  
"Well, if the papers say that then I guess it must be true."  
  
It's not as funny as he intended it to be and they sit there awkwardly for a few seconds, Ricky looking out into the distance behind the window, the curve of his jaw cutting through the rays of sunshine on his face and casting a deep shadow down his neck and lower, beneath his collar, contrasting the soft, bright fabric of his jumper.   
  
Cristiano looks at him and doesn't turn away, suddenly he's shameless in it, staring until he forgets to blink and his eyes hurt, until Ricky turns his head to face him with a surprised smile.  
  
"What?"  
  
Cris takes a deep breath. He knows that there will be many more decisions to follow but this is the one that matters right now, one that has been made all along, ever since he saw Ricky at the party in July.  
  
"I don't want to pretend like yesterday never happened" he says, "I don't want this to end."

*******

For a week it's midnight calls and a lot of silence over the phone, neither of them asking questions, neither of them answering the ones they want to ask. They talk about trivial things, mostly discussing Cris' games in detail. Sometimes Cristiano asks Ricky to tell him about Portugal, the walks he takes to a local bakery, the smell of fresh _pão_ in the morning. One day Ricky tells him that he became friends with an 80 year old lady who sells flowers in the street and spent an hour with her, just standing there and talking about classical music. Cris can almost see it - Ricky's dark, good eyes lighting up when she blushes at a compliment he gives her. But he can hear the distance through the phone, imagining his voice travelling over the waters of the English channel, somewhere in the air, invisible but meant for Ricky to hear. However hard he tries, it's still too far, too out of his reach.  
  
And then, at the beginning of the second week, Ricky stops calling and then suddenly he's there. He doesn't announce himself or make a fuss, just appears one day like he was there all along. Cris is walking through the corridors of Old Trafford, still a bit lost in the maze that is the inside of the stadium, trying to find one of the many conference rooms. There are people running around everywhere, the patter of their smart shoes and the rustle of their hushed voices merging into a steady rhythm.   
  
He takes a turn and Ricky is right there, standing in front of a glass cabinet with some award or another, hands in his pockets like it's his typical day at the office. Cris freezes in his steps, wondering for a brief moment if he's hallucinating or if the world shifted and he's in an alternate life. If he is though, he wants to stay in it forever, because Ricky turns his head and smiles and it hits him just how much he missed that smile, how he missed being looked at like that, like he’s capable of making someone happy.  
  
"What..." he starts faintly, walking up to him.  
  
Ricky laughs, throwing his head back, closing his eyes.  
  
"You should see your face" he says, clearly pleased with himself. It’s like he’s trying to get a reaction out of Cris, doing everything as intensely as he can, making it count by reckless moves that he wouldn’t have to choose if they were something else, something simple.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"  
  
"What makes you think I came for you?" Ricky responds and Cris knows he should laugh but he feels too worried, worried that it might not be a joke.  
  
That's when Ricky grabs his hand, so bravely, like they're the only ones there. It all happens too fast to notice, they are in an empty supply room in a matter of seconds and Ricky is pressing him into the door, nuzzling his face into Cris' neck, their bodies crashing together, gasping for air.  
  
"I couldn't stay away" Ricky whispers and now, now Cristiano feels like all he can do is laugh.

**November 27th, 2004**

It's the last warm day, Cristiano decides as he runs out onto the pitch and looks up into the pale sun. He's alone, the stadium is his and he feels the excitement rush down to his toes and back again, making him feel dizzy. This is everything he's ever wanted, a childhood dream that he's living in real life, having to pinch himself every time he drives over in the mornings and puts on his training shoes to run out into the heart of Old Trafford. He looks at the sea of seats, imagining the crowds chanting his name. There's a game later this week and he's buzzing for it, his skin tingling at the thought. It's a mix of excitement and anxiety, like always, but this time it's so relentless, all consuming, like a fire growing in his belly. Because this time, he will be watched, like he's been watched at practice for the past two days. Ricky's presence is constantly in the back of Cris' mind - if he's not here now, he probably will be soon.  
  
They only saw each other twice since he arrived, Ricky sneaking into the stadium thanks to his identification pass. Nobody asked questions, nobody even noticed him standing there on the balcony, sneaking a smile towards Cris as he ran back to the locker rooms to catch a quick kiss before the next training session. A few times he saw Ricky shake hands with one staff member or the other, but he knew that they weren't allowed to feel too safe. Seeing Ricky wander around is one thing, but walking in on them would be a completely different story. Cristiano doesn't even need to think about the consequences, he knew what they would be from the start, he knew he couldn't afford to be caught.  
  
That's why today he will tell Ricky that this must stop, that they can't meet like this anymore. He had tried to suggest meeting at Ricky's hotel or his apartment, or even in public, as if it was a business meeting, but he didn't have the strength to resist Ricky's touch in the forbidden rooms and corridors of the stadium, the ritual they had developed in the two days alone, Cris always hurrying off to find a minute at least, a second would be enough if it had to, just to feel Ricky's presence more than just by a glance or a smile. But now, it had to stop. They had to talk. Ricky would have to agree to meet him elsewhere or decide not to meet at all.  
  
And just like he expected, Ricky appears an hour after he starts training. It's still early and he's still alone, just a few cleaners and security guards moping around the halls of the stadium, but the pitch itself is empty and beautiful, overwhelming. Cris is running up the endless stairs for the fifth time already, his sweatshirt clinging to his body, his beanie a bit too big and falling over his eyes. He's properly getting into now, feeling the rush run through his veins and into his feet, making them move faster, better, aching more with every step.   
  
He lifts his head up, trying to see how many steps he has until he gets to the top and he sees Ricky watching him again, waiting. It's strange and it's dangerous but Cris can't deny that he kind of likes it, the surprise of Ricky being right there if he can reach him on time, before he disappears once again.  
  
"You have to..." Cristiano pants, bending down to rest his hands on his knees when he finally gets to the top, "You have to stop creeping up on me like that, I'm starting to suspect that you're a ghost."  
  
"Well, if I'm a ghost then so are you and nobody else can see us" Ricky smiles and reaches out to him, his hand almost touching Cris' hip, tempting him to get closer. Cristiano takes it, like he would take anything Ricky gives him, and lets him lead the way down the steps and into a row of seats. They don't sit in them though, scooting down as low as they can on the ground instead. Now it's true, nobody can see them and it feels like they're not even supposed to be there, not so close to each other, not so hungry for getting even closer if they can.  
  
"We have to stop doing this" Cris says quietly and Ricky's head snaps towards him, his brows furrowed. He's wearing a dark navy coat and he's beautiful, fresh and elegant and suddenly Cristiano feels stupid in his joggers and soaked hoodie.  
  
"What do you mean?" Ricky asks and Cris doesn't want to answer, he doesn't want to change anything in case there's nothing else that Ricky is willing to give.  
  
"I'm glad you're here. And I don't want this to end. But we can't keep meeting like this, I can't risk someone seeing us. I'm sorry, I don't know how to make this work" he says, looking out into the distance, thinking about all the people that have sat in the seats that he's looking at. What they would say if they knew. How most of them would hate him for it.  
  
Cris starts to shiver a bit, the realization building up in his throat like tears. He doesn't know how to make this work because there is no magical solution he could discover to make it all alright. It could never work, it would never be possible. Every minute they spend together is just postponing the inevitable. But he can't force himself not to want Ricky's lips, not to feel that smile pressed against his own mouth, he can't deny himself his touch any longer, the warmth of his skin in the chilly air as Ricky shifts and drags his finger across Cris' hand, up towards his wrist, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.  
  
"You know that I actually have a legitimate reason to be here, right?" Ricky says softly, "As far as anyone knows, I came here for business and business only. And if I'm seen here in strange hours of the morning, then maybe I left something the day before or maybe I wanted to check something. Besides, I'm leaving for London the day after tomorrow anyway, also for business reasons. Either way, nobody will ask because I don't have to be here for you. There are a million other reasons that I could give. But only one of them is true."  
  
He digs his fingers into Cristiano's wrist, trying to get under the layers of clothing just for a small piece of Cristiano's body to feel the life circling through him as he breathes faster and faster, leaning into the touch.  
  
"I thought you didn't want to meet anywhere else. I thought you wanted to keep it that way for a while. I was trying to make you feel comfortable" Ricky says even more quietly, holding onto his hand, looking deep into his eyes.  
  
"I do feel comfortable with you. And I'm allowed to have friends. We're allowed to meet outside of work and I don't care if somebody thinks otherwise" Cristiano answers and he believes his own words, he doesn't feel scared anymore. And when he lets himself feel brave, like he does on the pitch when it's all up to him, he knows that he doesn't want to ever stop feeling this way.

Ricky moves closer and takes Cristiano's hand, presses it to his own cheek. Cris can feel the words on his skin: "Alright. Have dinner with me tonight."  
  
He nods and bids his stiff fingers to move, grasping the back of Ricky's neck and pulling him into a kiss. They both open their mouths, quickly, impatiently as Cris sucks on Ricky's lip, biting it harshly like he wants to say _don't stop. Don't disappear._  
  
Ricky's hand moves down and slips up his sweatshirt, the cold air hitting his stomach for a second before he's on fire, Ricky's touch sending flames into his nerves. He whines into the kiss and he's not ashamed of it, Ricky's fingers are on his heart and he feels his own pulse pumping through them madly as Ricky presses harder. Cristiano knows that they should stop, get up and leave, but this is what he's always searching for, what has ruled him ever since he was a boy, the feeling of being so alive, so awake he can hardly breathe. So when Ricky lets his hand slide back down, his wrist brushing against Cris' pelvis, he doesn't protest, just breaks the kiss to press his mouth to Ricky's neck, his hand still holding him in place.  
  
"Last time" Ricky breathes and his eyes are dark, out of focus, his hand rested on the flat of Cristiano's stomach, unmoving.  
  
"I want you so much" Cris whispers, so quiet his words could be the breeze around them, whistling through the empty stadium. He grabs Ricky's sweater, crumples it in his fist, pulls him in so close that he's almost in his lap, one leg thrown over Cris' bent knee.  
  
Ricky looks around and then searches Cristiano's eyes, like he's waiting for him to decide and Cris' mind shouts for him to regain control, to realize how this could end everything right now if someone sees. But they're alone, blocked from anyone's view and his body is shouting much louder, just to feel Ricky's touch a little longer, as much as he can get.  
  
Cris takes both of Ricky's hands and guides him into his lap properly, Ricky straddling his thighs and taking his bottom lip into his mouth. They both shift at the same time, Ricky sliding into his arms and when Cris feels Ricky getting hard against his stomach, he doesn't think anymore. It's the adrenaline and the closeness of this man that he had wanted, _needed_ , ever since he first saw him, the softness of his lips and the strained feeling of his own cock pressing against his joggers. He moans into Ricky's mouth, bucking his hips up and Ricky listens, letting his hand fall down to untie the string of his pants with one swift move.  
  
"I've got you" Ricky murmurs and Cris goes limp, his face in Ricky's hands as they look in each other's eyes, excitement sparkling between them like it's something they've been waiting for for years. He lifts himself up and slides his joggers down just a couple of inches, his naked skin on the cold ground but he doesn't care, he feels hot and out of breath, out of any thoughts except for the fact that Ricky's fingers are wrapping around his cock, sending an electric shock through his entire body at the first touch.

He lets his head fall back against the sharp plastic of the seat that he's leaning on, he lets Ricky do what he wants, lying there motionless as Ricky spits into his hand and pulls a long, precise tug along his shaft. He slips it down all the way to the base of Cristiano's already leaking cock, smearing the precome with his thumb at the same time. Cris grits his teeth, because it's too much, this is crazy and completely wrong but it doesn't matter, not really, all he can concentrate on is the sight of Ricky's half open mouth, the feeling of the firm grip around him, moving up and down in slow strokes. He draws out his neck, silently telling Ricky that he needs to feel that mouth on his, needs him to stop looking at him like that, but Ricky doesn't oblige. Instead, he pulls harder, faster, getting into a steady rhythm and Cris fucks into his hand, snatching his hips, grabbing Ricky by the collar of his coat and pulling him in, getting what he wants.  
  
They gasp for air together, their lips barely touching until Ricky opens Cristiano's mouth with his tongue and the kiss is what he needs to feel the heat pool around his belly, his cock throbbing in Ricky's hand. He breaks off to let out a moan, a sound he has never made before, because Ricky's eyes are roaming his face, the look he has the most intense thing Cris has ever experienced as if saying _I want you to fall completely apart_. Without looking away, Cris cups Ricky's jaw, his finger absently pressing against his bottom lip and then Ricky takes two of his fingers into his mouth, sucking on them gently but enough to make Cris' breath hitch in his throat.   
  
_Ricardo_ is all he manages, like it's the only word he will ever speak and Ricky does what he wants, sliding his hand up right to the tip of his cock and slamming it down again, pressing his own body against Cris' side and biting into his neck, tickling his cheek with his hair. Cristiano closes his eyes, finding Ricky's other hand on the ground between them and digging his fingers into his skin when he comes so hard he sees small explosions under his eyelids, remembers nothing except for the fast beating of Ricky's heart against his own ribs.  
  
They sit there for a second as Cris pants and Ricky presses a kiss into his jaw, taking out a handkerchief. Then, he gets up and looks down on him, smiling brightly as if nothing happened between them, on the cold ground of the empty stadium, as if they weren't even friends.  
  
"Don't get up yet" he says calmly, "In case someone sees me leave. Till the evening, Cristiano."

*******

"This is a pathetic excuse for a _bacalhau a bras_ " Ricky huffs, pushing his plate away with distaste.  
  
The restaurant is a place Cristiano would never think he would frequent but he does, it's a favourite among the businessmen in the industry that he had accompanied to dinner a few times. He's still not used to it, the prices on the menu card still shocking him every time, the dim lighting and jazzy music making him feel like he's not really supposed to be there, like it's a mistake and any minute now someone is going to come up to him and say _leave, you don't belong here_. But nobody does, the waiter brings them dishes upon dishes and gives Ricky a glass of wine to taste before they order a bottle, politely asking Cristiano if everything is up to his liking.   
  
"Come on, don't be such a princess. That's because it's not really, it's just a fancy fish. You're not in Portugal, remember?" Cris says in his most stern voice, but he knows that he can't hide the fondness creeping into his eyes when Ricky wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.  
  
"I'm the princess? Please, you couldn't decide which table to pick for fifteen minutes" Ricky doesn't take his eyes off him as he sips his wine, his lips a deep crimson red as if Cris had bitten him too hard before.  
  
"Would you like something else?" Cris asks and he's scared by how much he wants this to be perfect. He wants them to sit at the nicest table, have the best meal and the best conversation, to make this evening count. Ricky shakes his head, mumbling something about being terribly full already, and Cristiano hopes that he won't notice how nervous he is. He'd be embarrassed to admit how much time he had spent getting ready, first taking a long shower, washing off Ricky's touch only to hope for more. Then, he moisturized his skin, spraying his neck and wrists with his favourite cologne and shaved, his hand shaking just a bit at the thought of being with Ricky again, the memory of earlier bringing a flush to his smooth cheeks. He chose a simple, crisp white shirt and decided against a tie, but clipped on his best cufflinks, a present from Dolores when he first left for England.  
  
"They're beautiful" Ricky hums softly when he sees Cristiano glancing at them nervously, "Were they a gift?"  
  
Cris looks up, smiling, surprised once again. It's like Ricky can read his mind, effortlessly, knowing exactly what he wants to talk about, what he misses most.  
  
"Yes, from my mother. She saved up for months to get them. Oh, come on Cristiano!" he laughs, mimicking her authoritative voice, her thick island accent, "You'll buy me something nice once you're famous and rich! That's what she told me when I said I couldn't accept them. She never takes no for an answer."  
  
"I imagine you must get it from somewhere" Ricky says, leaning back in his chair, "Do you see her often?"   
  
"Not as much as I'd like to. She comes over here a few times a year with my father" Cris says slowly. He's stepping on the topic he doesn't want to think about right now but somehow he doesn't seem as uncomfortable as he usually does.   
  
"Do you remember that party in July?" he changes the subject before Ricky can smile, comment on how nice it is that his parents come to visit, believe the usual untrue explanation that Cris hadn't even had the chance to give.  
  
"Which party? I go to a lot, you know, being so involved with the famous people and all that" Ricky's face is completely serious and Cristiano snorts, trying to stop himself from picking up his tablecloth and hitting him with it playfully.  
  
"Stop" he whines, laughing and Ricky nods.  
  
"Of course I remember, you were so hot sitting by that pool with that poor girl that wanted you so much. Why?"  
  
Cris laughs even harder, it feels good to hear Ricky's stupid jokes again. He knows that unless they start feeling too safe and exchange one fond glance too many, nobody will understand them, their language a blessing once again.  
  
"Well, you told me then that you went to Madeira. Is that true?" he asks once he regains his composure.  
  
"Yes and no. I did go but I went on my own" Ricky admits.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I kind of like travelling alone. Not having to deal with anything or anyone except for my own... thoughts" Ricky's voice quiets down, it's like he's luring him in, daring him to get closer, "Sometimes I like to explore the things that I haven't seen before, that I know nothing about. The people, the places, the feeling I get when I wake up in a different place every day, like the whole world is my home, you know? I like being dependant on my own mood, letting it guide me instead of having to fake it, just because everyone around me is used to just one version of me."  
  
Cris' smile dies on his lips, it's replaced by a look of dismay, of the words sinking in, opening his mind to something he hadn't even thought of before.  
  
"I wish I could do that too" he says finally.  
  
"I already told you. You can do that. You can do whatever you want to do" Ricky promises, smiling at him.   
  
They fall silent and there's something about Ricky that tells Cristiano that he knows. He knows that there's something left to be said, that he had escaped earlier but still wanted to explain, something he couldn't tell anyone else.  
  
"They come here to help my father" he blurts out before he thinks anymore about it and Ricky's eyes widen, "He's an alcoholic, you see. He's always been like that, ever since I can remember. And now his liver isn't working too well, kidneys too, so he came over here a few times to see some really good doctors I found for him. But he doesn't want to be helped."  
  
Cris talks like can't be stopped, like he had been waiting for years to say it all out loud. He's ruining it, he knows, the evening was supposed to be just for them and now it's all about Dinis, it always has to be about Dinis, even when he's not there.   
  
"I mean, it's not that bad, he just closes himself in his room and has a couple of drinks, but he's never been violent or anything. I don't want you to think that we were some pathological family, I had a loving home, a poor one but..."  
  
He trails off, hearing his mother's words pour out of his mouth, her excuses and explanations, her desperate need to talk them into being normal. He feels weak and tired, this isn't what he wanted and he wishes he could go back in time.   
  
Ricky is staring at him, his intense gaze digging into Cris' skin, his eyes incredibly sad, but not uncomfortable, not judging at all. He puts his hand on Cristiano's in a move so quick that nothing can be done, but Cris still tries to break away, the fact that they can't be seen holding hands at a restaurant still fluttering madly in the back of his mind like an insect drawn to the light. 

"Cristiano, it's alright" he says, holding on, not letting him go, "My family isn't perfect either. I know what it's like. You don't have to be afraid to tell me."  
  
Cris blinks a few times like he's just woken up from a bad dream. He had never talked about this to anyone, not even when he was still in school, and it didn't really occur to him that he wasn't the only one. He always felt isolated, always the one with the absent father and the mother that had to look for a way to put shoes on his feet while trying to keep the secret, make it seem like it was nothing.  
  
"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm talking about this. I don't want to ruin the evening" he mumbles and Ricky strokes his hand gently before he lets go.  
  
"You're not ruining it. I want you to talk about anything you want to talk about."  
  
Cris nods and takes a sip of his water. It's strange because he hadn't planned on saying all that but at the same time it feels so safe to know that it's out there now and Ricky doesn't think less of him, doesn't see him as the boy he was before he became who he is today.  
  
"Okay, I will. But now tell me more about feeling like the world is your home, please" he mocks but listens intently when Ricky does, the stories about the people he had met in strange corners of the globe taking Cristiano away from the grey, rainy day outside and into the places he had mostly seen himself too, just never sparing a moment to really get lost in them, always thinking only about what he went there to achieve.  
  
"So that was the story of how eighteen year old me went on a trip to Paris and almost got arrested for arguing with a police officer about the fact that you can't wear bermuda shorts at a public pool" Ricky laughs an hour and a few glasses of wine later. Cris is drowsy and happy, resting his face on his hand as he listens to everything Ricky tells him. More than anything, he realizes how much this man loves just _living_ , without anyone having to validate him, without getting constantly praised for it. And if Cris wasn't so enchanted, maybe he would remember that he chose a different path, a path of glory and fame.  
  
"Shall we go?" Ricky says and Cristiano nods absentmindedly, leaving a generous tip for the waiter and putting on his coat. It's dark outside, the rain tapping slowly on the pavement as he steps out to make his way to the car he had parked a few streets away in case they got spotted.  
  
"So... I guess I'll be going. You should get some sleep" Ricky murmurs, not daring to get close on the street, but making his voice spill over him like honey, letting him know that he wishes he could.  
  
"Will I see you tomorrow?" Cris asks and every part of his body shouts for Ricky to come with him.  
  
"Yes. Let's meet after your training. You could come to my hotel, maybe?" he offers and Cris smiles, because yes, that's what he will do and if anybody sees something then maybe it's for the better, maybe they could finally just say _yes we sometimes meet for a drink or two like friends do_ and be done with it.  
  
" _Bem_. I'll call you" Cris says and Ricky winks at him, making Cristiano's legs shake as he walks away, sinking into his coat, forcing himself to put one leg in front of the other. He gets to the corner and risks to look back and that's when he sees him.  
  
There's a man walking in the opposite direction, his long black coat making him look sinister and dark. He's probably middle-aged, completely ordinary, a cigarette dangling at his lips, a day old scruff on his thin cheeks. He's dragging a beautiful white dog behind him on a leash that looks tattered and old. When the dog stops to sniff around, he tugs sharply and it's almost lifted off the ground, squealing softly but not daring to bark. Ricky is walking their way, about to pass them on his way to his car, hands in his pockets like always, a spring in his step. Later, Cristiano will realize that he kind of knew how it would go right from the start but now everything happens so fast that all he can do is stand there and watch.  
  
The man stops in his tracks, his gaze falling on the dog like a whip and he shouts, loud enough for Cristiano to hear, his voice so sharp it could cut. He pulls the leash again and it snaps, the dog cowering on the ground at the sight of the strip of leather in the man's hand. He's still shouting, bending down with his arm in the air, his irritation making his face red and blotchy, his eyes mad. The dog curls up it's small body as the leash bangs on the ground, barely missing it by an ich.  
  
And Ricky is no longer walking calmly, he's leaping towards them, shouting too and that's when Cris feels his feet move on their own as fast as they can take him but he's too late, Ricky is already at the man's side, clutching him by the flaps of his coat.  
  
"Hey!" Cristiano shouts as he reaches them, "Ricardo, stop!"  
  
But Ricky is not letting go, shaking the man about as he screams _filho da puta_ and _fucking bastard_ and a lot of other things that Cristiano doesn't have the time to process. He grabs Ricky's shoulders, pulling him away, making him look into his eyes and calm down.  
  
"Ricardo, we have to go, okay?" he says as peacefully as he can. His heart is about to jump out of his chest, he doesn't know what's going on, he doesn't understand, but he knows that they have to leave  _now_.  
  
Ricky turns around, shaking, his face suddenly pale and completely different than just five minutes ago. Cristiano turns to the man, hoping that his dismay at someone standing up to him is the only thing on his mind so he doesn't recognize him.  
  
"I'm so sorry, sir. My friend thought you were someone else" he says in the best English he can produce, smiling politely, "Can I ask what is your name?"  
  
"My name?!" the man explodes all over again, the dog behind him letting out a sound of fear at the loud noise, "What the hell do you need my name for? The nerve of you foreign people, I swear -"  
  
"I'm sorry, I'd like to send you something to apologize, we are truly sorry" Cristiano cuts him off, his patience on the verge of ending. Ricky is leaning against his car, looking away into the street, breathing heavily. The man stares for a second, mistrustful but tempted by the perspective of a recompense.  
  
"Chadwick" he says finally, like it's an insult, "Martin Chadwick."  
  
"Great, Mr Chadwick, I'm so sorry again. Expect a giftcard in a few days" Cris adds quickly and turns around, "Ricardo, let's go!"  
  
Ricky walks up to him reluctantly, not bothering with another glance at the man who's still standing there, eyeing them suspiciously.  
  
"Give me the keys" Cris says through his teeth, standing by the door of Ricky's car, shuffling nervously.  
  
"No, I'm fine, I'll drive myself" Ricky spits and that's when Cris sees the realization hit the man's face as he opens his mouth and shouts.  
  
"Hey, aren't you that footballer guy? That, what is it, Ronaldo something?"  
  
"Get in the car" Cris says with all the authority he can muster and to his surprise Ricky does and opens the door on the driver's side for him without a word. Cristiano just smiles again and gets in as fast as he can, snatching the keys out of Ricky's hand and pulling out onto the street.  
  
"Why the hell did you stop me?" Ricky asks once they're at the corner, "You didn't have to come back, I could have dealt with it without risking you getting a nice article in the morning about getting into a fight in the fucking street."  
  
Cristiano doesn't know what to answer, he doesn't know what to do, because there are tears streaming down Ricky's face.  
  
"Ricardo, listen to me" he says after a while, turning in his seat, "I asked for his name so we can call the appropriate services the minute we get home, okay? Don't worry, I'm not letting him keep that dog."  
  
Ricky nods slowly, not objecting to going over to Cris' apartment. They spend the rest of the way in silence, Ricky calming down to the point where he's too quiet, too strangely disconnected and Cristiano realizes that there's something more, something that sent him into a state of rage and fear. They both agree without words to walk up the steps once they're in the building and Ricky follows behind, like a shadow of the person he was at dinner.  
  
"Make yourself at home" Cristiano says when they walk into his flat. He wishes it was nicer, with more soft spaces and warm colors, more like a home. Ricky sits down on his expensive sofa that has never seen anyone snug up on it, nobody ever coming over before except for Cris' family.   
  
Cristiano leaves him there, walking over to the kitchen to make tea. He leans on the counter as the water boils, taking a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts, understand what just happened and why. He hears footsteps behind him and feels Ricky's hands wrap around his waist, his body against his back, his head resting between Cristiano's shoulderblades.  
  
"I'm sorry" Ricky mumbles into his shirt, "You shouldn't have seen that. I'm not going to pretend like it was nothing and there's nothing to talk about. I just don't want to talk about it right now."  
  
Cris feels like his heart is about to burst as he turns around and takes Ricky's face in his hands.   
  
"Don't ever say you're sorry" he says and he means it, he means it so much it scares him, "It's alright, what that man was doing was wrong and you did the right thing. We can talk about it whenever you want to."  
  
Ricky smiles and stands on his tip-toes to press his lips to Cristiano's, softly, barely there. They make the tea and go back to the living room, the city glistening behind the window as they sit down.  
  
"So... No pictures on the walls? No plants?" Ricky asks like he's reading his mind again and Cris shrugs.  
  
"I've only been here a couple of months, give me a break" he says, trying to make Ricky laugh again. He clicks on the stereo, not ashamed of the Britney CD that he knows is there and that comes on full-blast.  
  
"Oh God, are you serious?" Ricky exclaims and Cris opens his mouth to argue but Ricky gets up and rocks his hips, his hands already in the air, "I love that song."  
  
They listen to the whole thing, Ricky walking around the apartment and telling him what he would do to it, where he would put a nice rug or a lamp because he happens to be quite the decorator. Cristiano excuses himself for a moment, taking the phone with him and makes sure that Mr Chadwick will never have a dog again in his life. When he comes back and whispers that it's taken care of, they get closer on the sofa, Ricky finally falling into Cristiano's arms as they talk about Portugal again, checking if they might know some of the same places, telling each other stories of their hometowns. After a while, when they're finally out of subjects to discuss, Cristiano sits up and looks into Ricky's eyes.  
  
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks and Ricky nods, but it's the smile that tells Cris that he's not lying.  
  
"Yes. Don't worry. I get like that sometimes, but I'll be fine" he says and puts his hand on Cristiano's knee, reassuring but also pleading, kneading his thigh gently, a question in his touch.  
  
Cristiano gets on his knees on the hard wooden floor and he knows that this isn't an answer, but he opens the button of Ricky's jeans either way. His lower belly is covered in goosebumps, his whole body shivering and Cristiano takes his hand, pressing it into the soft fabric of the couch.  
  
He looks up to check and Ricky is looking at him, surprised but with a smile in his eyes and Cris understands that it's okay. He takes him into his mouth in one long move, he doesn't know how to do this but he does it anyway, pulling off and twirling his tongue around the tip of Ricky's cock.  
  
"Oh _meu deus_ , Cristiano" Ricky whimpers and holds onto his hand harder, their fingers intertwining without their control.  
  
With his free hand, Cris digs into the flesh of Ricky's upper thigh and then his hip, wanting him to know that he's there, really there, more and more with each passing minute. He bobs his head up and down deeper each time until his nose is brushing against Ricky's skin and his cock hits the back of Cris' throat. Cristiano hums at the sensation and opens his eyes, looking up to see that Ricky is watching him, a crease on his forehead, biting his lip. He hollows his cheeks and Ricky's head falls back, his hand pressing Cristiano's into the couch so hard it hurts but he doesn't even notice.  
  
Later, when he gets up and says _stay_ , his voice raspy and his eyes dark, he realizes that the kiss Ricky gives him as an answer is something different now, something dangerous. And this, Cris fears as Ricky takes him into his arms, this is what it must be like to be falling in love.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There aren't really any warnings for this chapter except for the continuation of the "not so happy childhood mentions" warning and a warning about the ungodly amount of smut in this chapter that I actually feel quite proud of. This chapter is the longest one yet at almost 12K words so I hope that will make up a bit for the long wait. Thank you so much for reading, please come say hi on tumblr if you'd like :)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I know nothing about Cristiano's or Ricky's families but I'm sure they're all lovely people and I would just like to remind everyone that this is a work of pure FICTION and how I portrayed some of their family members does not reflect my opinion on them in real life at all.

**11th December, 2004**

It's Ricky's last morning in London and he wakes up with Cris' arm thrown over his waist.

This shouldn't be happening, he thinks looking down at Cristiano's body spread over the bed - it really shouldn't, because they're in a hotel and there's no possible excuse they could give if it turned out not to be as discreet as they were told. It dawns on him now but he didn't care the night before when Cris drove all the way from Manchester just to pull Ricky into his car, cheeks flushed, eyes wide as he reached out to tilt back the passenger seat and climb into Ricky's lap.

They sneaked into the hotel late at night, the receptionist too sleepy to look up from her desk as Cris introduced himself with his mother's maiden name without a stutter, Ricky's heart beating fast enough to make his hands shake. Cristiano appeared unbothered, exhilarated by the recklessness of what they were doing, full of energy like a child that's up to no good.

Ricky quickly learned that Cristiano loves being naked as he shimmied out of his clothes the minute they came into the room, parading around in his boxers until Ricky ripped them off, too impatient to slide them down those legs that seemed to go on forever, Cris' thighs shaking as he sucked into them to leave dark marks on his skin. Now Cristiano is deep asleep, the giggly boy he was the night before gone without a trace - a young man breathing heavily in his place. Ricky slides out of bed and holds back an instinctive need to turn around for another peek at Cris' peaceful face. If there's anything he can control it's the little things, the fleeting glances that he tells himself to resist. When Cris is awake and in his arms it's too easy to forget.  
  
He walks into the bathroom, grabs his toiletry bag and starts throwing anything he can find into it. He doesn't have time to pack neatly and even if he did, he'd prefer to spend it on stealing a few more minutes in bed, maybe ordering room service or just watching Cris sleep. That would be safer because Ricky has half a mind to leave without waking him up, just to avoid having to say goodbye, seeing the uncertainty in Cristiano's eyes as they kiss before Ricky will have to walk out the door. They haven't talked about seeing each other again and the thought of going back to Portugal without him is making Ricky sick to his stomach, tying it into tight knots, letting him know that this whole thing is definitely a mistake.   
  
But then Cris shifts on the bed, sleepily letting his hand search around for Ricky without opening his eyes. And that's when Ricky knows that he could never leave without an explanation, without a promise that this isn't the end.  
  
"Good morning" he whispers, leaning across the bed to press a kiss into Cristiano's temple, "I have to leave soon."  
  
Cris groans, rolling over to his side, opening his eyes just to give him a dissatisfied look. His lips are chapped, his face slightly pink still from the night before when he came so hard he had tears in his eyes. He looks wrecked and perfect and Ricky doesn't want to leave.  
  
"I know" he says sympathetically, running a hand through Crisitano's messy hair, "I'll tell the receptionist to give you a late check out so you can stay a few hours after I go."  
  
Cris doesn't say anything, just pulls him into the bed properly like nothing can stop him, like they can just stay in it for days. Ricky falls into the pillows, lets Cristiano throw him around until he's back in his arms, unable to move.  
  
"What if you didn't go?" Cristiano asks, his voice muffled, and Ricky's heart sinks. This is what he's afraid of, the plea in Cris' voice, the fact that he doesn't even look at him when he asks.   
  
He doesn't answer, just holds him tighter, resting Cris' head between his neck and his chest. He feels Cristiano's soft hair on his face as he kisses his forehead lightly, hoping that's enough.  
  
Then he pulls away, quickly like he's afraid that Cristiano will do something to make him stay. He stands up, trying to locate his jeans in the heap of clothes on the floor. He pulls them out from under Cris' hoodie, a pair of sunglasses falling out of the pocket with a loud rattle, a reminder that they will always have to hide.  
  
"I'm going to miss that ass" Cristiano mumbles from the bed, fully awake now, propped up on the pillows to watch him get dressed, "You sure you have no time for me to pull those right off again?"  
  
For a second Ricky thinks that maybe he should have left when he had the chance because Cris is lifting himself up, stretching like a wild cat before he crawls towards him, bouncing slightly on the squishy mattress, his arms flexing to keep him from sinking into it as he gets closer and closer, a dreamy smile on his face. He reaches out, slips a finger through a loophole of Ricky's jeans and pulls him in, the closeness of his half-open mouth making it hard to concentrate on anything, let alone leaving the room.  
  
"I'll miss my flight" Ricky says, his voice cracking slightly when Cris looks up at him, the white sheets framing his face, making him look even younger than he usually does. Ricky bends down, cupping Cristiano's face in both his hands and looking into his eyes for a brief second before he brushes his lips against Cris', not giving himself the permission to do anything more.  
  
"Call me when you leave" he adds, breaking off without giving him another look, leaning over the bed to grab his watch from the nightstand instead. He shoves it in his pocket and grabs a fresh shirt out of his already packed bag.  
  
"Right" Cris says flatly, his gaze still following Ricky around the room as he walks around, looking for the bits and pieces he might have forgotten, but everything else is Cristiano's - there's nothing left for him to do to prolong the inevitable. He throws on his coat and doesn't bother tying his shoes, turning around at the door to look at the bed one last time. Cris is lying on his stomach, ready to get up and do something stupid, something wanton and daring, even if the door is already opened and anybody could hear them.  
  
"Hey" Ricky says and Cristiano flinches, "I'll see you soon, okay?"  
  
Cris nods, but neither of them smile as Ricky closes the door.

**23rd December, 2004  
**

Ricky tries not to count the days since Cristiano's last call but it's difficult because it must have been over a week now, or maybe even longer than that. And Ricky is stuck because thinking about the days that have gone by is hard but thinking about the ones that are still about to come is much worse. Those days are full of possibilities, though Ricky only sees one - the devastatingly scary possibility that Cris might not call at all, that he's already moved on, leaving Ricky behind to wonder, to wait.   
  
Either way, this is the last time, Ricky consoles himself late at night when he lies in bed staring at the phone. This is the moment of the final decision they both have to make. And there's no denying it, Ricky knows what he wants. It's silly, something he would never see himself feel, but he can't think of any sacrifice he would have to make that could make him stop wanting Cristiano. And still, here he is, in his flat that feels more like a prison, trying not to make the call himself, not because it's a power play of who will do it first, but because he wants to give Cris everything and all he has is time.  
  
So he decides to wait, trusting that Cristiano will have enough decency to let him know at least if he decides to never see him again. Which he probably will and that's okay, Ricky convinces himself - it's okay because he has time to get used to the thought, to prepare himself to hear it without feeling his gut sink all the way to his feet and showing that he does not, will not agree to that decision even though he knows it's the only one they both should make.  
  
It's almost Christmas and the thought of spending it at home is just what Ricky needs to sink completely into his misery. He can't think of anything he would like to do less and he groans as he rolls out of bed. It's a busy time in the office as every year, the holiday spirit of frantic shopping making it irresistibly attractive for signing new contracts and generating mountains of paperwork that Ricky is actually looking forward to. He'd gladly spend the entire holiday dealing with paperwork just to silence the chaos in his mind.  
  
Once he arrives at work and gets into things, he manages to refrain from checking his private phone every few minutes. He only does it once at lunch and a few times in the afternoon, which is a small victory in itself, but it's still blank - no missed calls except for a message from Catarina that makes him want to ask if he can spend the holidays with her instead.   
  
"Hey" he mumbles into the phone when he calls her back, smoking a cigarette in the doorway of his office building.  
  
"Oh no. Are you smoking again? You can't date a football star and be a smoker, Ricardo."  
  
"I am not dating anyone, I told you to stop repeating that" he whispers, looking behind his back like someone around him could hear Catarina's voice through the phone, "You're making me paranoid."  
  
"I don't think I'm the reason for your paranoia babe, but okay" she says softly, "What's up?"   
  
"You know what's wrong. Christmas is what's wrong and everything else too, I just..." his voice trails off, "God, I just really don't want to go."  
  
"I know. But you always say that and you still manage somehow. You will this time too. And if it gets really bad you can always come over to my mum's house, I'll be there all week."  
  
In spite of hoping she would say that, Ricky knows that he can't accept her offer. It's the eternal conflict he has between what is worse: doing something he really doesn't want to do or the guilt he feels if he decides not to do it.  
  
"Thanks. I'll try to last a few days at least" he says and reminds himself not to ask if she wants to drive to Matosinhos together. That's what they would usually do when they both moved to Lisbon years ago, returning to their hometown together or not at all. But now things are different, Catarina has her own family and no space for an extra passenger. It seems like everybody has moved on, leaving him alone in the exact same pathetic place that he can't escape.   
  
He decides to leave the office early like everyone else and spend his last evening at home on doing some serious soul-searching with a cheesy Christmas movie and maybe even some crying. That's definitely what he needs, since he doesn't even remember the last time he actually cried without control or embarrassment and God, he really does need it. He stops by the movie rental on his way home and turns off all the lights before throwing himself over his couch with nothing to comfort him except for a thin rug that came with the flat and will probably give him some fatal disease. As the film starts and continues through a hundred shots of Christmas lights and smiling faces, Ricky realizes that his plan is useless because all he feels is anxiety that can only be releaved by one thing, the only thing he can't do.  
  
After an hour Ricky finally gives up and gets up to grab the bag he still hadn't unpacked since he came back from England. The clothes inside it still smell of Cris and all the places they've been in, from Old Trafford and the streets of Manchester to the hotel bed in London that he wishes he had never left. He tosses them onto the floor and packs a few clean shirts and boxers instead. It's mechanical now, he's in the state that he usually adapts without thinking about it whenever he has to go back home, a state of indifference and just being completely hollow, the void appearing like an old friend when he needs it most.   
  
He can't stay in his flat alone but he doesn't want to arrive at his parents house any earlier than he needs to either. So, on the night before Christmas Eve, Ricky drives around until he almost runs out of gas while desperately trying to keep it up and not, not, _not_  call Cristiano.

*******

"Your light is broken" his father says impassively,  walking up to the car in his slippers when Ricky arrives the next day, "And you look disgraceful, couldn't you have had a shave at least before you left?"  
  
Ricky almost smiles. All the years of experience have taught him what to expect so well that he no longer feels disappointed.  
  
"The light broke on my way here. And I'm sorry about my appearance, I should have shaved, you're right" he replies politely, wondering how forced his voice sounds as he takes his bag from the backseat. He knows better than to explain what really happened, how he drove over hours ago but preferred to have a nap in his car and then walk around the town he once knew so well, every paving stone on the way to school, every face in the local shops that his mother would send him to for the morning paper and a loaf of freshly baked bread.  
  
She's standing on the doorstep now, her thin, tiny frame taking up almost no space at all. She's wearing an apron that Ricky remembers from his childhood, as if she can't afford a new one after all these years, as if she purposely wants to remind him of all the things he had left behind.   
  
"Ricardo" she smiles, her lips pressed together, her eyes dead.  
  
" _Bom dia, mãe_ " he says, pressing his cheek to hers, marvelling at how cold her skin feels and how many more wrinkles have appeared around her eyes since he last saw her, no traces of youth left in her sharp, lean features. She puts her arms around his neck and hugs him long enough for him to let out a breath he had been holding in.  
  
"Well, won't you give your old man a hug too?" his father asks behind them and Ricky shudders. He always waits until they get into the house to hug him, as if it's a punishment, something he has to draw out and Ricky has to earn.   
  
He obeys without a word, lifting his head to rest it on his father's shoulder and let himself be embraced by these strong, rough hands that he hates. It's probably the only time they will touch during his whole stay and Ricky wants it to end as fast as possible.  
  
"Is Pedro here already?" he asks, pulling away and it's a nervous reaction, an attempt to break the awkward silence because he already knows the answer before he hears it.  
  
"Yes, of course. He's been helping us for a few days now. Christmas is a lot of work you know?" his mother says, accompanied by a disapproving look on his father's face.  
  
They take the stairs to the first floor and Ricky feels like his feet weigh a ton each. This house used to be his safeplace, his home, but ever since he moved out it's been the main character of his nightmares and being there after almost a year feels like a nightmare too, the eerie silence and emptiness of the many rooms, the cold beige colors of the walls that remember his worst moments - he hates all of it.   
  
He walks into the kitchen, the room that was always the most vacant, none of them wanting to spend more time together than neccesairy. Now Pedro is there, prancing about in a Christmas-themed tie, humming to himself to demonstrate how very comfortable he feels in the place and company that Ricky had grown to despise.  
  
" _Então, maninho!_  You showed up after all" Pedro exclaims when he sees him, a cloth flying in his hand, his curls bouncing as he grins that sneering grin.  
  
"I never said I wouldn't come, brother" Ricky smiles tightly, slapping Pedro on the back like a big brother should. But he's not the big brother, not really, older only in age but treated like the immature, childish one ever since Pedro went on to do all the things that Ricky had failed at. They used to be friends, united in their fear of their father's rage, Ricky taking responsibility for Pedro more often than not when they were kids. But all that is gone now. Their father's power over them faded away and so did their need for each other, especially when Pedro decided to do exactly what was expected of him and become a lawyer. In the meantime, Ricky was the one who was "too lazy to become a football player and too childish to get over his sports fascination". And, he fucked off to England as soon as he got the chance, which was received as a personal insult to the whole family.  
  
"Don't be rude to your brother, Ricardo. You only just got here" their father scolds, walking into the kitchen.  
  
"Just a bit of banter, dad" Pedro smiles and Ricky looks away before he can catch his condescending gaze.  
  
"Yes. I think I'll go unpack now, if that's okay" Ricky says and, with a nod from both of them, leaves the room.  
  
His bedroom is nothing like what it used to be when he was a child, it's more of a guest room now and feels nothing like home. The only thing that's actually his is the heavy, wooden desk still standing by the window and Ricky snorts, knowing that there are more than a few not so elegant words on it, carved into the back with a kitchen knife, mostly late at night when he used to take his chances and let out his frustrations in any way possible. Everything else is new, a double bed in the center of the room so unwelcoming that Ricky doesn't even want to sit on it, hoisting himself up onto the windowsill instead, just like he used to do when he couldn't sleep because of his parents' screaming.   
  
At least the view is the same, he thinks, the stretch of the front yard reaching towards the gate, the old tree that he used to love to climb hanging over the fence. Ricky knows that just around the corner Catarina is probably having similar thoughts in her family home except her's really is a home, not only to her but also to Ricky more than his own. The thought that he can always walk over there is simultaneously comforting and out of place. Being so close to what was once so familiar is a feeling he never really liked, looking for something new all the time - the cities and people he had collected over the years a testimony to his constant seeking for a refuge from his own home.  
  
He looks at his watch and decides it's time to change into his suit. He unpacks it carefully and goes to change in the bathroom, yielding into his father's request and having a quick shave too. Then, he aligns the presents he got for his family on the bed, all of them not personal at all, but expensive enough to be a statement of him being content with his life. Perfume for his mother, the kind he knows she probably won't wear anyway, a silk designer shirt for his brother and a bottle of the finest whisky for his father because he couldn't resist the irony of it. He takes out the matching, snowflake-themed bags he got for the three of them and writes their names on the tags. And when he looks at them, arranged neatly on the desk, he feels like he could finally cry.  
  
It's not the right time though and he swears under his breath, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and leaving the room. He can do this. He's done it before and it's never as bad as he thinks it will be. He just needs to survive two days, three at most, and then he'll be off, back to his life in Lisbon where he has absolutely nothing to look forward to.  
  
"You two can sit down at the table while Pedro and I finish up in the kitchen" his mother says, passing him in the corridor, her apron finally gone, a simple red dress in it's place, "I don't want the food to get cold."  
  
Ricky nods and swallows - this is what he was afraid of the most, spending time alone with his father. He walks over to the dining room, the Christmas tree glistening in the corner. He puts the presents underneath it, feeling ridiculous and tense, and takes a seat at the side of the table, on his father's right like the eldest son should.  
  
"What did you get us this time? Like I always say, the best present for your mother would be helping her with the preparations. It's not that easy to cook and clean for the entire family, I'll have you know."  
  
If it were a few years earlier, Ricky would most probably snort and snap right back. _You're one to talk_ he'd mumble under his breath or, on a few occasions, he might have even gotten up and said it loud and clear, earning himself a swat on the head, if only that. Now there's nothing his father can do and it just doesn't seem worth it anymore, so Ricky just nods and stares back at him without a word.  
  
"Do not give me that look, boy. You haven't been home in months and now you walk in here, thinking that expensive presents -" his father starts but is cut off when Pedro waltzes into the room, a tray of dishes in his hands.  
  
"Merry Christmas!" he shrieks cheerfully and Ricky groans, the rage building up in him with every minute swelling up in his throat. He tries to remember what he was taught, how to deal with panicking or lashing out but it all seems to be blocked by the black, thick cloud of anger taking over his brain.  
  
"Here, let me take that" he jumps up, snatching the tray out of Pedro's hands and placing the plates around the table just to focus on something, anything.  
  
Thankfully Ricky is left out of the conversation for most of the first course, his parents discussing matters, relatives and friends that he knows nothing about, Pedro joining in with his witty remarks and making Ricky's eyes roll back into his head. He eats in silence, his back straight against the tall chair, a napkin spread neatly across his lap, both of his hands on the table. He's the perfect example of what his father always taught him to be and yet, it's not enough.  
  
"You look good, Ricardo" his mother finally addresses him, her long red nails tapping on the porcelain cup she's holding between her hands, "Maybe England did agree with you after all."  
_  
No,_ Ricky wants to say _. No, I don't look good, I look and feel terrible and I don't want you to take that away from me. All I've ever wanted was for you to acknowledge that I'm not okay.  
_  
"Thank you, _mamã_ " he says instead with a polite smile and relishes in the awkward silence that falls around the table when he adds, "You look wonderful as well. Haven't aged a day."  
  
After dinner, Ricky excuses himself to get ready before going to church for _Missa do Galo_ , something that he paradoxically likes the most about Christmas. He lets the water in the bathroom run for a few minutes while he calms down, hands rested against the sink and head lowered so he doesn't have to look himself in the eye.   
  
His father is asleep like always so he can avoid the forced conversation over cake and Pedro is watching a Christmas concert in the living room with their mum. Ricky slips into what used to be his room silently and picks up his phone mindlessly. There's a missed call and a text and his heart drops down to his feet when he sees who's it from.   
  
He tries to breathe but it's hard because his lungs feel too small for the air he needs to make his brain work properly again. He sits down on the unowned bed and forces himself to open the text, his fingers twitching over the keyboard.  
  
**_hey, just wanted to wish you a merry christmas. call me back if you feel like talking. miss you._**  
  
Ricky exhales and lets a smile surface across his face, his muscles relaxing. He stares at the text for a bit, rereading it more times than he would admit and clicks the reply button.  
  
"You and your technology, do you really need that phone on you at all times?" his mother says, suddenly opening the door to his room. He jumps and turns off the text frantically even though he knows there's no way she would be able to see it.  
  
"Can we drive in your car? It's in the driveway already so you're blocking the way out of the garage" she adds, leaning on the door frame and eyeing him suspiciously.  
  
"Um, yes, alright" he agrees, flinching at the thought of the fastfood boxes and dirty clothes that he has lying around on the backseet, "I just need to make a phonecall, I'll be with you in a minute."  
  
She hums somewhat disapprovingly and leaves, not closing the door behind her. Ricky sighs and gets up to do it himself, his phone burning a hole through his hand.   
  
"Hello?" Cris mumbles after a few dial tones and Ricky smiles so wide his face hurts.  
  
"Hi. Did I wake you?" he asks, already knowing the answer because Cris' voice is raspy and slow.  
  
"No, it's okay. I mean yeah, I must have dozed off while waiting for your call."  
  
Ricky's laugh dies in his throat because after weeks without contact, Cris was waiting for him to call back, not hoping - waiting.  
  
"How are you?" Cris asks before Ricky can say anything.  
  
"I'm fine, at my parents house. How about you?"  
  
It sounds fake and terribly strained, but Ricky realizes that for some reason he's afraid of saying anything more.  
  
"Good, good..." Cris trails off, sounding as confused as Ricky feels. The void that they somehow naturally filled while Ricky was in London is back, unspoken words lingering through the phone, like they're strangers again with nothing to tell each other. And suddenly Ricky knows that he can't let that happen.  
  
"You know what?" he says without contemplating it further, "My Christmas has been terrible, I hate being here and I wish I had called you earlier, I just didn't know if you wanted me to. I miss talking to you and seeing you and these few weeks have been hell."  
  
His voice is hushed so he won't be heard but he speaks slowly, making sure that Cristiano understands every word.  
  
"There. That's how I really am. So let's try this again. How are you?"  
  
There's silence on the other end and Ricky shudders. Maybe that was too harsh, too intense, too close to the line that they silently drew over these few weeks. Maybe Cris doesn't want what he wants.  
  
"I'll be in Lisbon the day after tomorrow. We're spending a few days at Katia's house" Cristiano finally says and Ricky can hear the smile in his voice, "Want to come over?"

**27th December, 2004**

He makes the last corner and the car grunts but manages to pull up into the driveway, Cristiano's sister's house emerging through a wall of neatly trimmed bushes. It's just like any other house on the street, quite ordinary but welcoming at the same time, with the lawn freshy mowed and the gate already opened for Ricky to drive through. There's a dog sniffing around the front yard and a child runs up to pick it up with a smile, a boy of maybe three or four with Cris' chestnut skin and unruly hair that falls into his eyes as he cuddles the puppy and looks up to see Ricky sitting in the car, staring, unsure what to do. He rolls down the window just in time to hear the child call out Cris' name, a trace of worry in his voice as he glances over his shoulder. Cristiano appears after a few seconds, peeking out from around the corner of the house.  
  
„It's okay, _amado_ ” he shouts back, walking up to the boy and placing a reassuring hand on his head.  
  
Ricky exhales and leans out of the window to wave to them, Cristiano making his way through the lawn, his back straight, his stance confident and strong like he's walking onto a football pitch.  
  
„Hello” he says with a smile, resting his hands on the half open window of Ricky's car as if he's expecting a kiss. He looks like he knows that he's making Ricky uncomfortable, a smirk replacing the smile and a sparkle appearing in his eyes.  
  
„Uh, hi. Where can I park?” Ricky asks quickly, unsure of who might be watching them from the many windows of the house, and Cris gestures to the side of the driveway with a lazy wave of his arm.  
  
„There will do” he says and walks alongside the car, Ricky's gaze falling onto his hips, the muscles of his lower belly moving gently under his thin white t-shirt and his gym shorts that slide up his thighs with every step.  
  
Ricky manages to park the car without crashing it into one of the bushes and steps out, the little boy still clutching the squealing puppy to his chest and staring at him warily. Cristiano beckons him to come over, gripping Ricky into a hug so tight he knocks the air out of his lungs.  
  
„I'm glad you're here” he whispers into his hair before squatting down by the boy to ruffle his hair, „This is my good friend, Ricardo. Do you want to introduce yourself?”  
  
The boy shakes his head violently, the puppy finally getting a moment to jump out of his arms and run into the bushes. Cris laughs like Ricky hasn't heard him laugh before, a completely uncontrolled sound that almost makes him fall over backwards but he regains his balance and takes the boy into his arms, lifting him up as he stands up.  
  
„This is Rodrigo, Katia's boy. He's very shy” he explains, throwing him into the air above his head and catching him almost instantly as Rodrigo giggles with delight.  
  
"Hi there" Ricky says and bends down slightly, "I'm very shy too, you know. And I'm a bit nervous about meeting everybody. Do you think it'll be okay?"  
  
The boy's eyes turn round, his thumb wondering up to his face to rub absentmindedly against his rosy lips. He nods slowly and Ricky smiles at him, making a relieved sound. Cris puts Rodrigo on the ground and watches him run towards the door before turning to Ricky with a grin.  
  
"Nervous to meet the parents, huh?"  
  
Ricky feels a blush creep up on his face and turns around with a mumble of "shut up" to grab the flower bouquet that he picked up on the way and a bottle of wine that he had chosen carefully from his father's wine collection.  
  
"You come prepared, I see" Cris goes on and Ricky groans, "Are you going to take me to prom as well?"  
  
"Stop it" Ricky manages to hiss through gritted teeth before the front door opens and a tall, brunette woman appears, a light-blue dress complimenting her gorgeous figure, a warm smile on her full lips. Cris introduces them, Katia hugging him like they've been friends for years and Ricky instantly feels a strong pull to her loud, sunny personality that she displays with every move and every word as he hands her the wine and she embarks on a story about the time her husband tried to make his own wine that turned out to be strong enough to put a horse to sleep. Cristiano raises his eyebrows at him behind Katia's back and Ricky laughs, feeling more at ease by the minute.  
  
They walk up the stairs and into a spacious, bright living room. Katia's husband and Hugo and Elma shout their hellos, waving at him from a huge couch that they are all sitting on, watching a tape that looks a lot like a homevideo of them when they were kids. It's something that Ricky had only seen in family-themed films, a perfect harmony, Elma resting her legs in Hugo's lap and laughing at something he said, Katia's son and husband engaging in a tickle fight on the other side of the sofa, the soft sounds of the video reflecting their real-life voices full of life and joy.  
  
He blinks, half expecting for the perfect picture to vanish like a dream, and feels a tap on his shoulder, Cristiano nudging him in the ribs. He turns around to face Dolores herself, the woman he had admired from a distance for so long now appearing right before him.  
  
"Ricardo" she says, drawing out the "o" as she opens her arms for him and Ricky lets her hug him without question. There's a smile that seems to permanently reside in her eyes and he smiles too, breathing in her warm, rosy smell as she pats him on the back.  
  
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Aveiro" he mumbles into her hair and she laughs, stepping back and eyeing him up and down.  
  
"Call me Dolores, please! Anybody important to my son calls me that."  
  
"Um, alright... Dolores" he says, his throat tight as Cris giggles beside him, rolling his eyes, "These are for you."  
  
He hands her the flowers and she thanks him sincerely like it's an expensive, heartfelt gift. Ricky looks up from her impossibly warm, still youthful face to notice a tall man appearing in the corridor, making his way towards them slowly, a slight limp in his step. His wrinkled, sharp features soften when he enters the room, a glimpse of worry in Dolores' eyes as she looks at him as if to check if he's okay.  
  
"This is Dinis, my husband. _Querido_ , this is Cristiano's friend Ricardo that he tolds us so much about" she takes her husband's hand and squeezes it softly, her gaze not leaving his face for a second as she speaks.  
  
„Hello, Ricardo. You're very welcome here” Dinis says, extending his hand but there's no emotion in his voice, like it's all been washed away with the burning liquor that Ricky can smell on him as he grips his hand and smiles warmly without even having to try. There's something about Dinis that he instantly understands, something of a wounded, tired animal as he sighs heavily and gives everyone in the room a small nod. He's different, isolated somehow from everybody else, but Ricky can see at once something that he never saw a glimpse of in his own family - that despite everything, Dinis is still trying.   
  
Dolores invites Ricky to sit on the couch while she prepares dinner, her fond smile telling him everything he needs to know about her as she looks at her children, and he insists on helping in the kitchen. Cris follows them silently, leaning onto the doorframe to watch them interact and Ricky finds with surprise that he doesn't feel uncomfortable at all. Cristiano's presence is calming and Dolores is delightful, making them both laugh out loud as she bosses Ricky around the kitchen. They finish up with dinner while Cris and Katia set the table and soon they are all gathered around it, passing dishes to each other and talking loudly over one another, the puppy barking occasionally from the doorstep.  
  
It's absolutely magical, something Ricky had never experienced with his own family and as he looks at Rodrigo climbing into his grandfather's lap, he knows that he will never forget it. Dinis takes the boy tenderly into his arms, his face lighting up with a million loving lights and Ricky feels a sting of regret that his own family was never capable of showing each other a little warmth.  
  
"Hey" Cris whispers next to him, catching his gaze, "Alright?"  
  
Ricky nods, looking him in the eyes, a shiver running through his entire body. As dinner progresses, he is questioned about every little detail of his life in the best possible way, all of them listening intently to him blabbing on about his job and his travels, about England and his take on football itself, Cris trying to start a mock argument a few times before Elma shuts him down with a look.  
  
"Let our guest speak, Cris. He clearly knows more about the game than you do" she says and everyone roars with laughter as Cris indulges them and pretends to storm off with a resentful look.  
  
It's well after dessert and a match of table tennis in the garden (that Hugo wins over Cristiano with a celebratory leap around the house) when Ricky gets up to say his goodbyes. His feet feel heavy when he walks over to hug Dolores, her steady breathing and the softness of her hands around his neck making him almost purr in her arms.   
  
"Thank you so much for having me. I had a wonderful time" he says quietly and she looks right into his eyes.  
  
"It was our pleasure, dear."  
  
He makes his way to the car with a lump in his throat, Cris' hand on the small of his back guiding him around the corner of the house instead.   
  
"I want to talk to you before you go" he says in response to Ricky's questioning gaze and stops halfway to the garden, pressing Ricky's body into the wall of the house with his own weight as he rests his head on Ricky's shoulder and breathes onto his neck. Ricky relaxes into his chest, letting himself go almost completely limp before pushing him away gently, the lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as Cris pulls away with a puzzled look.  
  
"We can't keep doing this" Ricky says in a hushed but stern voice and to his utter surprise, Cris nods slowly like he has been thinking exactly the same thing.  
  
"I know."  
  
There's silence for a while and Ricky wants to kiss him so much it hurts, the month of not seeing him somehow easier than standing right before him, their bodies so close he can feel the warmth of Cristiano's skin burning into his flesh.  
  
"I've thought about it a lot" Cris says, not looking at him, the curve of his jaw turning towards the garden and the dark evening sky, "And I know we have to make decisions and figure this out. But I can't do it on my own. I tried to think it through, ignore the fact that you weren't there, but I just can't."  
  
Ricky opens his mouth but Cristiano shakes his head and wraps his fingers around Ricky's wrist, as though stopping him in his tracks.  
  
"Wait, let me say this. I don't know what to do, how to stop wanting you or how to let myself want you without ruining our lives. But I know that I can't do it alone. We need to think about this together, give each other some answers. So come away with me. Let's leave, just the two of us."  
  
Ricky can hear the words but doesn't really understand, the meaning of them evades him for a few seconds before hitting with full force. The vision of being alone with Cristiano, days to spend on pretending that this is easy and possible is too dangerous but too tempting to resist.  
  
"Where... Where would we go?"   
  
"I'm renting a house in Madeira. It's completely safe, we've been there on a holiday a few times and nobody ever spotted us. We could go for the weekend after the New Year."  
  
Cristiano trembles in the cool evening air, squeezing Ricky's hand and looking at him finally, his brows furrowed, his jaw clenched. He's beautiful and Ricky knows that he would never forgive himself if he didn't try.  
  
"Fuck, okay. Yeah" he says, his voice sounding foreign in his own mouth.  
  
"Yeah?" Cris asks, his eyes widening, his body moving closer, a smile growing and growing on his lips until it's impossible to smile wider.  
  
Ricky takes a breath and pulls him in, running a hand through the soft hair on the back of Cristiano's neck, ghosting a kiss over his lips, breathing shallowly as Cris tugs onto his shirt.  
  
"Yes. Let's do it" he says and crashes his mouth into Cris' lips.

**6th January, 2005**

"You have to let me pay at least for my own flight" Ricky huffs, fiddling with the keys to the bungalow as Cris lifts their bags out of his car.  
  
"We've had that discussion already" Cris moans, dropping the bags by his feet and giving Ricky a stern look.  
  
"And yet you still haven't acknowledged the fact that I refuse to be your kept boy."  
  
Cristiano moves behind him, pinching his ass and wrapping his arms around his waist, hot air blowing onto Ricky's neck before Cris sucks into it and snatches the keys out of his hands.  
  
"Let me do that. Kept boys shouldn't have to trouble themselves with such hard work" he says with a smirk, the door cracking open as Ricky wrestles him with a laugh to get them back.  
  
He falls silent at the sight before him, his gaze evading the interior of the room completely to reach the view of the sea behind the huge window. It's almost sunset, the surface of the water rippling gently in the light breeze and the rosy hue of the evening sky blushing through the window and onto the floor. A shadow of the nearby cliff falls onto the beige sand of the beach right outside the glass doors, a handfull of it lying around on the tiles, like someone had just come in after an evening walk along the coast.  
  
"Oh" Ricky breathes, still standing in the doorway, mesmerized. The living room isn't overly big or luxurious but it's perfectly arranged, with a sofa placed perfectly to overlook the view and two huge armchairs surrounding a square coffee table. What catches Ricky's eye the most though is a huge bookstand in the corner, the display of rows upon rows of colourful book covers standing out on the white wall.  
  
"I'm glad you like it" Cristiano grins, plopping down onto one of the armchairs and immediately crossing his legs on the table, "I haven't been here in months."  
  
Ricky shuffles around, not sure what to do with himself. The room has a homey feel to it, the remains of family weekends scattered around it: a book left half-open on the sofa, someone's shoes lined up by the door.   
  
"Well, someone's been watering your plants" Ricky notices, glancing at the huge vase with a blooming hibiscus growing inside it.  
  
"Yes, Mrs Soares. She's my landlord and she comes here to get away from her husband. And water the plants, of course. You'll love her, she brings biscuits."  
  
Ricky laughs, feeling more and more at home by the minute as he kicks off his shoes and pads over to Cristiano barefooted, the soft rug tickling his toes.  
  
"Won't she be surprised when she sees me? Instead of a tall, busty model?" he asks, perching up on the arm of the chair.  
  
"I've already told her about you. I call her quite often to check on the house and talk about soap operas" Cris says and Ricky laughs harder, sliding down into his lap.  
  
"Are you serious?"  
  
"Of course" Cris murmurs into his hair, taking him into his arms, "Mrs Soares and I are good friends, thank you very much. I trust her with my plants and with my secrets."  
  
Ricky relaxes into his touch, his eyes fixed on the glistening shore, watching the sun sink into the small waves.  
  
"Don't worry. We're safe here" Cristiano adds and turns Ricky's chin towards him, humming softly as he kisses him, "Come on. Let's say hello to the sea."  
  
"Hello to the sea? God, you're such a sap" Ricky snorts as Cris pushes him off and stands up to slide open the glass doors to the beach.  
  
He stays in the chair, crossing his legs and leaning back. Cristiano takes off his socks and smiles back at him before walking away, little clouds of sand hovering into the air with each step. Ricky watches his hips sway, his moves lazy and relaxed as he reaches the shore and Ricky gets up to join him. The fresh breeze hits his lungs and makes him feel dizzy, like he hasn't taken a full breath in years, and he can almost taste it on his tongue, tiny beads of water seemingly floating around in the air. It's a warm evening despite it being the beginning of January, the island living by it's own rules, hidden from the world. Ricky realizes how far away they are and that it's true - nobody can find them here, hidden behind the majestic cliff hanging over the edge of the sea.  
  
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Cris asks beside him, his eyes sparkling, a wide smile on his lips, "I remember coming here as a kid because the beaches are wider and more sandy. My dad and I would drive along the coast and arque over which house we would buy if we could."  
  
"And now you're here, vacationing in one of them" Ricky says in a posh accent and Cris smirks, bending down to slide his joggers down his legs and throwing them onto the dry sand. His t-shirt follows, leaving him in his boxers, the last rays of sunshine glistening on his skin. There's nothing RIcky can do but get rid of his clothes too, shivering slightly as he takes a step in, the water colder and colder as he goes deeper and it hits his knees and then his waist.  
  
"God, it's cold. Why do I always do what you tell me to?" he groans as Cris splashes at him with a devilish grin.   
  
"There's only one way to do it" he says and raises his hands above his head, diving in without a second thought and leaving nothing behind but a ripple on the surface of the sea. After a few seconds Ricky feels a hand trailing up his thigh underwater and the goosebumps appearing all over his body as Cris emerges right in front of him, wrapping his legs around him and clinging onto his shoulders.  
  
Ricky lifts him up without hesitation, earning a surprised gasp, and then Cris presses himself into Ricky's body, the mild waves rocking him up and down on Ricky's hips, sending a jolt of warmth through his body.  
  
"Don't you dare sink me" he says quietly, staring into Cris' eyes and smiling at the look he gets in return, Cris' pupils almost completely black, his breathing shallow against Ricky's chest.

"I wasn't going to" Cristiano says and locks his hands around Ricky's neck, slamming their lips together and Ricky lifts him up again by his thighs, cupping his ass in both hands and opening his mouth with his tongue.  
  
"Fuck, I can't believe we're doing this" he whispers into Cristiano's mouth, a laugh caught in his throat as Cris grinds down on him, pressing into his lower belly. Ricky swirls them around, his body burning with red hot fire in the cool water, his hands frantic around Cris' waist, back and ass.  
  
They have a swimming contest around the cliff and back again, Ricky barely keeping up with Cris' pace but not completely embarrassing himself, and then the sun drowns completely, painting the sky with a deep vermilion orange. Cris chases him back to the house, catching Ricky around the waist and stumbling to the ground, wet sand covering them both from head to toe as they finally stumble into the living room, panting heavily and leaving traces of it all over the floor.  
  
"Look at this mess" Ricky exclaims, throwing his damp clothes onto the tiles, "What would Mrs Soares say?"  
  
Cris gives him a scolding look and walks into the kitchen, rummaging around for a mop.  
  
"I'll clean it up. The bathroom is down the hall to the right if you want to take a shower" he shouts as something drops to the ground and he adds _merda_  under his breath.  
  
Ricky smiles and shouts back an okay, making his way through the long corridor of doors until he finds the bathroom that is mostly a shower space with marble walls and a waterfall-like faucet that he sets to maximum temperature. He takes off his soaked boxers and walks in, standing there until the sand washes away, the glass doors fogging up completely in the humid air. Ricky hears the door crack open before he sees anything in the cloud of steam, Cristiano's lean figure appearing before him like a ghost. There are gentle fingers at the nape of his neck, pulling him into a hard kiss, all teeth and tongue and Cristiano doesn't give him any time to react, kneeling before him and gripping his hips. Ricky looks down, biting back a moan as Cris glances back at him. His hair is already matted to his face in the hot stream of water hitting his shoulders and dripping down his bare chest, his eyes innocent but his lips already parting to take him into his mouth in one motion, Ricky's cock instantly hitting the back of Cristiano's throat.  
  
"God, baby. You really love doing this, don't you?" Ricky says weakly, the pet name rolling naturally off his lips, his knees trembling as Cris bobs his head like he wants it all right away, like they have no time at all. Ricky rests his left hand on the wall, gripping the back of Cristiano's head with his right, drawing small circles into his scalp. Cris hollows his cheeks and pulls back, Ricky's cock popping out of his mouth.  
  
"It's hard not to love it when you have someone so hot to suck off" he says, his voice rough, his lips deep red as he smiles and then bites into Ricky's inner thigh, leaving a dark bruise while jerking him off steadily, his other hand squeezing Ricky's ass, guiding his cock back into his mouth.  
  
Cris gets into it even more with each passing minute, Ricky's jaw clenched as he closes his eyes, his head spinning. Cris licks up and down his shaft, taking a full breath and not letting Ricky's throbbing cock leave his mouth, pulling away almost completely just to take him in again. He hums low in his throat, sending a vibrating sensation up Ricky's body and into the heat pooling in his belly, his hand curling up into a fist as he lets it fly to his mouth. Cristiano's hands are on his hips, slamming them into the wall each time he pulls off, working them furiously so he can sit straight and breathe through his nose as he brushes it against the very base of Ricky's cock with a steady rythm. The steam engulfs them both, the water running down their bodies mixed with sweat, Cris' mouth so wet and hot that Ricky can't focus on anything else, leaning heavily to his side, barely standing on his feet. He puts his hand on Cris' shoulder, grazing his finger over his collarbone as Cristiano's mouth narrows around him and he comes with a shout, trembling violently.  
  
"Come here" he says finally, regaining his focus as Cristiano gets up to kiss his neck and wrap his arms around his shoulders. He's hard and impatient, his heavy cock pressing into Ricky's belly and Cris rolls his hips with a quiet whine.  
  
"You drive me crazy" he says, something strange in his voice, something sad like he knows that's not how it should be. Ricky decides to ignore it for now, because Cris is sucking his earlobe and leaving bite marks all the way down to his chest.

Ricky taps his ass and Cris jumps up onto his hips, moaning into Ricky's mouth as his back crashes into the wall. Ricky feels himself getting hard again, the closeness of Cris' slick, hot body against his too much to bare as his cock presses into Cristiano's rim, making them both gasp. They haven't fucked yet and Ricky knows that Cristiano wants it, knows how impatient he is when he needs something but now is not the time, they are too tired and Cris is too needy so Ricky puts him down and turns him around, dropping to his knees and licking a long stripe along Cristiano's scrotum instead. Cris pushes back as Ricky blows onto his entrance, teasing it with the tip of the tongue, his hand kneading at the inside of his thighs. He presses down on the small of Cristiano's back and he bends down even lower, his hands resting on the wall, the water cascading down his back and over the perfect arch of his ass.  
  
They move together as Ricky slurps his tongue up and down, his face burried between the hard muscles of Cris' asscheeks, a small whimper escaping Cristiano's lips when Ricky twists his tongue past his rim. Then, he circles his finger around it, pushing in and pulling out again until Cris pleads under his breath and he presses in, bending his finger to brush over Cris' prostate. And Cristiano bucks his hips into thin air, his hand sliding down his body to wrap around his cock and tug a few times until Ricky gets up and grabs his hand at the base of his cock firmly, pressing his body against Cris' back, getting hard himself when he rubs against his ass.  
  
"Let's go get dry" he murmurs into Cristiano's steaming skin, sucking the water off his shoulders and neck, Cris rolling his hips against him and sending jolts of craving so intense it almost hurts through Ricky's body.   
  
They dry off quickly, a fluffy towel tucked around Ricky's waist as Cris follows him to the bedroom. He lets his hand wonder beneath it the minute they reach the king-sized bed, the sky finally navy blue and peaceful, the swishing sound of the rocking waves slipping in through the cracked window. Cris wraps his hand around him again, connecting their lips slowly, his moves deliberate and lazy, his body shining in the low light of the bedside lamp. Ricky breathes into his mouth, his jaw going slightly slack as Cristiano lets the towel fall to the floor and presses into him, knocking him over onto the bed. Then he turns around and the way his hips sway before his whole body turns is the most perfect thing that Ricky has ever seen. Cris squats down by the bedside table, fishing around the drawer for a small bottle of lube and a condom. He throws the bottle onto the covers and opens the packet with his teeth, hoisting himself up to straddle Ricky's hips and slide the condom over his cock, his eyes dark as he looks at him.  
  
"Just fuck me already" he rasps, grinding down on him, sliding his own cock against Ricky's, making him squirm, "I want you so much."  
  
Ricky sits up, locking his hands behind Cris' neck and bringing him into a sloppy kiss before turning him over with one swift move and laying him down on his back.  
  
"Yeah... Alright" he mumbles into Cris' abs and takes him into his mouth, his hands lifting up Cris' ass and kneading over it. He swirls his tongue over the tip of Cris' cock just a few times as he slips a finger inside him and adds another almost instantly, curling them up to hit the throbbing bundle of nerves, making Cristiano's leg kick out and his hands clench into fists around the clean white sheets.  
  
Cris moans, his head thrown back on the pillows, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down his throat as he gasps for air. Ricky scissors him until he's a wriggling mess and opens the lube bottle with his other hand, slicking himself up and aligning his cock with Cristiano's fluttering rim.   
  
"Okay?" Ricky asks, leaning over his lax body, breathing onto his neck as he starts pushing in gently, shocks of pleasure exploding under his skin.  
  
Cris just hums, placing both hands on Ricky's ass, guiding him in slowly until he bottoms out with a sharp gasp, sucking into Cris' shoulder with a moan.   
  
"God, you feel so fucking good" he mumbles and pulls out just to roll his hips back into him a bit more forcefully, his vision clouded as he lifts himself up on his arms and looks into Cris' eyes. And Cristiano is staring at his lips, his own parted and drawing in short breaths, his cheeks flushed with a deep shade of primrose pink. Ricky leans down, his tongue licking into Cris' mouth, lapping over his lower lip and biting it as Cris pushes his hands down and Ricky fucks into him, Cris making an obscene sound beneath him. He's snatching his hips, pushing back against Ricky's hasty rythm, his cock leaking against his lower belly.  
  
"Please" he whispers again, his eyes wide open and teeth clenched as Ricky closes his hand around him and twists his wrist, Cristiano lifting his entire body into his touch. Ricky tugs a few times, his own cock deep inside Cris' body as he circles his hips.  
  
"Turn around" he says, letting go and pulling away, Cristiano getting on his knees without question and looking back at him over his shoulder.  
  
"If you don't stop teasing me, I swear -" he starts weakly and swallows the words back into his throat as Ricky slams into him from behind, one arm locking around Cris' chest, the other one clenching around his cock and tugging in rythm with his quick thrusts.  
  
"Shh, I got you" Ricky promises, holding him close and changing the angle of his hips just a bit to hit his prostate, Cris throwing his head back violently and resting it on Ricky's shoulder, his mouth wide open in a constant mumble of _Ricardo_ and _please_ , his eyes shut.  
  
His hand flies into the air and grabs onto Ricky's neck, pulling him in for a backwards kiss, their teeth knocking together as Ricky rolls his hips and closes his fingers around the tip of Cris' cock at the same time and Cris bites back a scream, coming into Ricky's hand.  
  
He rides it out, suddenly a lot more forceful and firm, moving back and forth on Ricky's cock, twirling his hips in figure eight knots. His body is like a wild animal or a perfect machine, each muscle flexing and relaxing again, his skin glowing with sweat. And when Ricky comes again, his legs caving into the mattress and his chest falling onto Cris' back, it's something he has never experienced before, lust mixing with awe, relief mixing with fear that this beautiful boy he has in his arms is too good to be true.

*******

The sun hits Cris' face and he groans, shifting slightly back into the shade of the huge beach umbrella that he's lying beneath, the hard plastic bars of the deck chair contrasting the softness of his naked skin, already half a tone darker then when they arrived.  
  
A few beads of sea water are still drying on his legs after a jog along the coast and a long swim that left him out of breath and tired enough to collapse in a heap. It's been over an hour since he fell asleep and Ricky is getting bored, not focused enough to read or do anything really except for craving Cris' company and the touch of his radiating, warm skin.  
  
"Hello, sleepy head" he says louder than necessary, Cristiano lifting his head slowly and blinking a few times, squinting his eyes. His face is puffy and toned with a pink glow, his lips bitten, the pattern of the towel he rested his head on pressed into his cheek.  
  
"What time is it?" he mumbles and pats the ground around his chair for his sunglasses.  
  
"It's almost three. And you promised me dinner."  
  
Cris sits up and looks at Ricky like he doesn't understand a word he's saying, still disoriented. Ricky scoots over and places both of his hands on Cris' knees, sitting between them and lifting his chin to brush his mouth against Cris' lips.  
  
"Right. Dinner" Cristiano murmurs and holds Ricky in, smiling against the crook of his neck. He tastes like salt and something familiar and Ricky wants to rock him back to sleep, or lick the sun off his chest until he becomes the other Cristiano again - the one that constantly touches and teases, sending enticing glances and moving around the house in a way he knows Ricky can't resist.  
  
But during Cris' nap, Ricky had a while to think and realize what he has to do. Their getaway so far has been exactly what Ricky wanted but also feared - a play pretend that they couldn't take with them to the real world, that had no chance of figuring out what would come next.   
  
He decides to bring it up at dinner, the real reason why they even came here that they both silently agreed to forget the night before. Cristiano cooks, just like he promised, a feast of traditional madeiran dishes appearing on the kitchen counter as he dances around it, wearing nothing but an apron, singing in spanish to the music blasting through the windows and onto the patio overlooking the beach.   
  
They eat outside, a refreshing breeze ruffling Cris' hair as he licks his fingers, the juice of a huge papaya fruit dribbling down his chin.  
  
"Mmm, this is so delicious" he says, holding it up like it's a work of art, "Nothing like that plastic shit from the british supermarkets."  
  
Ricky snorts and nods, his eyes not leaving Cristiano's smiling face, his heart racing in his bare chest.  
  
"I have to ask you something" he says and Cris looks up at him, concern furrowing his brows, "What are we doing here?"  
  
"Having fun?" he answers with a question and Ricky feels a sharp sting of anger well up in throat.  
  
Cris notices the change in his face and gets up, walking around the patio table and squatting down beside him.  
  
"Shit, I'm sorry, that's completely not what I meant. It's not just fun to me. I just meant that I enjoy every second with you and I don't want to waste our time on thinking about the reality of things" he explains, looking at him worriedly and Ricky believes him.  
  
"I know. But I can't shake the thought that we were supposed to talk about those things" he says slowly, as calmly as he can, "About what we should do when this weekend is over."  
  
Cris nods but doesn't say anything, digging his finger into Ricky's thigh.  
  
"I've been thinking..." Ricky continues and feels a bit faint, the words barely escaping his throat tight with nerves, "I could ask if they'd give me my old job back."  
  
Cristiano's head snaps up at him, his eyes strangely blank, not a sign of a smile on his face.  
  
"You mean move back to England? To your old, _worse_ job?" he asks but his tone isn't happy or excited, it's incredulous and almost disgusted.  
  
"It's just a job" Ricky says and Cris gets up, pacing up and down the edge of the table.  
  
"it's not just a job. You hated living in England and you hated being stuck at that job."  
  
"That was before we started... whatever this is. Listen," he stands up too, gripping Cristiano's shoulders and making him look up, "do you want this? I mean, really want this with no more hiding and running away?"  
  
Cris' body seems weak, his normally strong shoulders and arms lifeless almost as he looks up, his face paler than usual.  
  
"Yeah. I really, really do want this" he says quietly.  
  
"So that's the only way. You're obviously not going anywhere so I should move back if we're going to make it work. Then we can figure out the rest. I've been thinking about it and maybe, if we create some position for me on your team, we could make it seem less suspicious" Ricky goes on, the excitement building up in his lungs, threatening to cut off his air. This is something he considered before but saying it out loud makes it valid and true, that it is possible that it could all work out if they both just try.  
  
"I'm not letting you give up your job for me, Ricardo. That's what you chose, that's what you wanted and I know how much you love working for the national team. You were miserable in England and I couldn't bare making you miserable."  
  
Ricky stares at him, the range of emotions going through his mind enough to make him strangely sleepy and distant. He suddenly wants to end this conversation as fast as he started it, go back to how things were before.  
  
"So you're saying no?" he asks as a last effort.  
  
"I'm saying that it's an idea and I'll think about it, okay?" Cris says, moving closer towards him, "I want this, Ricardo. So much. I just want it on terms that will make us both happy."  
  
Ricky nods and tries to smile, his heart sinking deeper and deeper into his chest as he takes Cristiano into his arms. They stand there for a while, Ricky's breathing in the smell of Cris' sweet skin and trying to calm his thoughts, trying to focus on the closeness of this body that he could love forever and just hold it while he can. Cristiano cleans up after dinner and decides on a movie to watch, cuddling into Ricky's chest and looking up at him occasionally to see his reactions, tickling him a few times when he doesn't laugh at the right moments. Then it's sunset again and Cris lets his hands wander under Ricky's shirt, snapping the band of his shorts against his hips. And as Ricky bends Cristiano over the arm of the couch, not bothering to slide his boxers further than halfway down his thighs, and fucks into him until they both almost black out, it's like they both know that it's the last time.

**9th January, 2005**

They land in Lisbon late on Sunday night, stopping at the exit gates of the airport to say goodbye before Cris catches a plain straight to London. They stand in the crowd of people, Cristiano's face almost completely covered by a beanie and a pair of big sunglasses and Ricky wishes for a brief second that they could kiss like anyone else, like they should be able to.  
  
He drives home in silence, his mind empty and his body tired, falling onto the couch the minute he opens the door. He dozes off to the sound of someone drilling into the wall, into his head and his bones, the only coherent thought he can form being the unsettling feeling of not knowing what to do.  
  
The phone wakes him up an hour later and he blinks in the dark, his mouth dry and his neck crooked painfully.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Cris sniffles into the phone, taking a few shuddered breaths. Ricky sits up immediately, his hand shaking as he clenches it around the phone.  
  
"Cristiano? What happened?"  
  
There's a few seconds of silence as he pants, trying to steady his thoughts enough to comprehend whatever Cris has to say.  
  
"Nothing's happened. I'm just so sorry" Cris says ever so quietly and Ricky feels himself fall, all the things he wanted slipping out of his touch, "I can't do this."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER include illness of a close family member and quite emotional times for both my characters. I made myself cry while writing this so yeah, I'm sorry.
> 
> It will get better, I swear. Thank you so much for reading.

**16th April, 2005**

He runs down the hospital stairs like he's on the pitch, everybody else far behind him, his feet never leaving the spinning ball. His head feels heavy and dull and as he stops on the pavement outside, he realizes that he has nowhere to run to - there is nothing to win even if he runs as fast as he can. He bends down and rests his hands on his knees, trying to take deep breaths and almost coughing on the cool London air, the taste of pollution and dust spilling into his mouth.  
  
It's a beautiful day, the first one this year after months of gray skies and rain, and Cristiano wonders how can everything seem to be coming back to life if everything around him is dying. Because that's what he knows now, after seeing him in the hospital bed, so small and weak – his father is dying and there's nothing he can do to fix it.

„Cristiano?” Dolores calls after him from the top of the stairs but he doesn't turn back to look at her, he can't look at her. There are a million emotions buzzing inside him, threatening to burst through his skin and into the world if he dares to open his mouth. The one that he feels the most painfully though is guilt, the kind of guilt that makes him want to lie down and stay there until he dies too, or just disappears, without a sound or a word of complaint, because that's what he deserves – to stop existing. He doesn't have a purpose to exist anymore or at least he doesn't remember what it used to be.

„ _Meu rico filho_ ” Dolores almost whispers as she approaches him, a hand on his shoulder, and her rough skin, hardened by years of tough work suddenly reminds him why he ever left Madeira. Everything he ever did, all the decisions he made about his life, the countless hours of training and of dreaming to be the best came from one desire, a desire he had since he could remember. To become someone his family would be proud of and to take care of them in times like these. He wanted to be able to afford the best possible care if anything ever happened to them, to make them feel safe. But this isn't something he can fight with his physical strength or his money or his fame. After all these years and all these sacrifices he made, he still isn't invincible. And neither is his father.

„Let's go back inside, darling. We don't want you to get seen here, do we now?” Dolores says softly, pushing her fingers into his skin. It's something she always does when everything feels hopeless, she's the mother that isn't afraid to let him be her child even if over the years he has become the head of the family. But right now he can't afford to be vulnerable – if he lets her in, he will fall completely apart.

„I just need a minute” he mumbles without looking at her, straightening his back and taking a deep breath.

„Cristiano, we really should -”

„I said I just need one minute alone, _mamã_ ” he says, louder this time and she nods slowly.

And then she's gone and he wants to punch something, destroy something fragile and watch it crumble because he feels so fucking guilty. His head is bursting again, a low whistling sound constant in his ears, the view of the street in front of him blurry. He tries to tell himself all the things that people usually say to make themselves feel better: _everything is going to be okay, it's not your fault, there is nothing you could have done_. But no matter how many times he whispers it like a mantra it's never the truth, because it is his fault and everybody else's too – they should have reacted sooner. He remembers the day he told his father that he had arranged for him to be taken to a rehab facility, the best one he could find. The cold stare in Dinis' eyes told him right away that he would never agree to it but he still tried - calmly at first, then tearfully, then yelling at the top of his lungs until Dolores was pleading for him to stop and just let it be.

A veil of rage clouds his mind, almost blinding him in the pale sun, and there's nothing he wants to do more than to just keep running, fast enough to make his legs give in. It takes all of his willpower to stand still, breathing heavily and bidding his body to turn around and walk back up the stairs and through the hospital doors, the thick scent of chemicals and illness almost hitting him off his feet. He continues though, one step after another, until he gets to the waiting room where he finds Elma and Hugo perched on a pair of uncomfortable plastic chairs, Elma whispering something with her hands in her lap and Hugo staring at the floor, his head swaying gently from side to side, his leg twitching.  
  
„You okay?” Elma asks when she notices him, Hugo's gaze shooting up at him like a scared animal, like Cris is someone to be afraid of. It's the look that he has noticed before, Hugo's strange behaviour towards him since he moved to England making Cristiano wonder more than once – should he confront him about it? He catches himself missing the bond they used to have, how they used to talk about everything, how Hugo was the first of his siblings to know that he wasn't straight and never judging or rejecting him. Now he feels judged every time Hugo looks at him and if he's not careful it might be just another thing to send him into a fit or anger, because he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this.  
  
„Yeah, are you?” he answers, trying to control his voice but he's looking at Hugo, asking him questions with his eyes until they both look away, making a silent decision – this is not the place or time. He sits down and crosses his legs, tilts back his head to take a deep breath again, trying to force his still racing heart to settle down.  
  
„Well, I have to go soon. I promised Katia I would take Rodrigo this afternoon so she can sit with _papá_  for a while” Elma says, her voice blank and tired and suddenly Cris feels very grateful that they all flew over the minute they got the bad news so he didn't have to deal with everything alone.

„Listen, I'll take over from here” he promises and stands up, „You two go get some rest. I'll wait for Katia and stay as long as I can.”  
  
„No, it's alright. I'll come back in the evening” Elma insists and he waves her off with a flick of his hand and a smile.  
  
„Elma, you can't help if you don't take care of yourself first. Besides, I want to spend some time alone with him before I have to go back to Manchester in a few days. Go to the hotel, have a good night's sleep. And take mum with you. Alright?”  
  
Finally, she nods and Cris takes one last glance at Hugo, who is still silent and looking at his feet, before he leaves the room.  
  
Despite all the flowers, get well cards and colorful blankets, his father's room is still just a hospital room and Cristiano flinches at the sight of all the tubes and wires surrounding his bed like strange plants in a mechanic jungle. Dinis seems to be asleep, his small frame barely leaving a cavity in the fluffy pillow that Dolores brought all the way from their home in Madeira. Cris tries to move soundlessly, tries to levitate without his feet touching the ground, to disappear. He doesn't want to be there. He doesn't want any of them to be there.  
  
He manages to get to the chair on the other side of the bed and sit down slowly without waking Dinis up and that's when he dares to take a closer look, to watch the flicker of his creased eyelids, the little puffs of breath almost visible blowing out of his chapped, half open mouth. His skin is a sickly yellow color all over his body, no signs of life pumping through it like it used to when he cheered him on from the stands in his first stadium in Madeira, the one where Dinis worked at and never even imagined how that one simple job he got by chance would change the life of his family forever.  
  
Cris leans back in the chair and tries not to think about the last time he told his father he loved him, just a few weeks ago over the phone. He didn't remember a time he had said it before that but on that particular day it just slipped out of his mouth without him planning it or even realizing it until there was a pause on the other end and then Dinis' voice, surprised like he'd said something shocking, something bad. _I love you too, son_. Now it's weak, almost sheer like a fabric of an expensive dress when he parts his lips and mumbles _Cristiano_ , but it's a question not a statement made with relief.  
  
„I'm here, _papá_ ” Cris says quickly, sliding on the chair and catching his father's gaze that's staring somewhere into the distance trough his half open eyes.  
  
„Shouldn't you be training?” Dinis asks and Cris snorts because it's something so typical of him to say, too typical for this.  
  
„No, I'm going back tomorrow. Everything is settled, don't worry.”  
  
„It's very nice of them to let you take such a long break” Dinis whispers almost and Cristiano smiles because that too is something he always does, never naming anyone Cris worked with, not even his manager or coach, as if he was trying to constantly prove that he wasn't and would never be a part of his world.  
  
„Yes, yes it is. Do you need anything?” Cris asks and his father shifts on the bed, almost sinking into it and smiling a crooked smile.  
  
„I'd like to have this pillow propped up a bit higher so I can sit” he says and Cristiano tenses.  
  
„I'm not sure if that's something you should be doing right now, the doctor said you shouldn't move around too much.”  
  
„Cristiano. Do you want me to get bedsores?” Cris shakes his head, the suddenly stern tone of Dinis' voice making him forget that he should be the one in charge here, he should be the one taking care of him, „Well, in that case help me up. I need to tell you something.”  
  
Cristiano flinches at the thought of a talking to he's apparently about to get, but does as he's told. He lifts Dinis' upper body by his dry, bony shoulders and positions the pillow so he can sit up in the bed. Dinis lets out a deep sigh as he rests against it, his eyes closing again for a minute or two, like the few words he said have exhausted him already.  
  
„Maybe you should sleep some more? I'll be here when you wake up, then we can talk” Cris tries but his father finds his hand in the cold, crispy sheets and squeezes it with surprising force.  
  
„Please, Cristiano. I really need you to listen to me.”  
  
Cristiano nods and gives a weak _okay_ when he realizes that Dinis' eyes are still closed. There is a minute of silence, filled only with his father's rugged breathing.  
  
„You know, when I first met your mother it took me quite some time to realize that she was the woman I should spend the rest of my life with” Dinis starts and Cris' head shoots up from gazing at his lap, his eyes now worried and his grip on Dinis' hand tightening even more.  
  
„Why are you telling me this? _Papá_ , there is no need to talk about...” he mutters quickly, panic starting deep inside him and making his voice tremble.  
  
„Shush, child! Will you let me speak or not? You're always so impatient...” Dinis raises his voice and caves in almost immediately, the words stuck in his throat as he gasps for air, a grimace of pain flashing through his face. Cristiano's entire body screams to stop this, to walk out, to block out whatever his father wants to say, to be the responsible one and just make him rest. But there is also something deeper, something driven by the all-consuming fear of not having another chance to hear what Dinis has to say that makes him grit his teeth and nod in obedience.  
  
„I'm sorry. I won't interrupt you again.”  
  
„Good. Let me start over. When I first met your mother, it took a while for me to realize that she was the one for me, not because I didn't love her right away, oh no – I loved her the minute I saw her” Dinis says so quietly that Cristiano has to lean in, Dinis' chest raising and falling again so close to his face he could just rest his head against it and fall asleep like he used to when he was a boy, „I just always thought that I had time and that I should have fun before settling down, focus on other things maybe. But now I realize that even all this time I had with your mother over the years wasn't enough.”  
  
Dinis opens his eyes to see if Cristiano is listening and his mouth twitches into a calm smile. At this point, there's not much Cris can do to bid away the lump in his throat that is silencing him, so he doesn't ask why does everything Dinis says sound like a goodbye.  
  
„What I'm trying to say is” his father resumes, the grip on Cris' slightly shaky hand getting weaker and weaker, „Is that I am worried about you, _meu filho_. I couldn't have wished for better children and I have nothing but pride and admiration for what you have accomplished. But you have never introduced us to anybody dear to you, anybody except for that boy Ricardo.”  
  
If Cristiano didn't want to have this conversation before, now he actually jumps up slightly and has to order himself to sit back down. This isn't what he was expecting.  
  
„What do you mean by that?” he manages but he already knows the answer, it's something that must have been brewing in his family for years, all the questions about him, all the things he tried to distract them from by putting the focus on his career.  
  
„Well... I don't know much about your personal life and I don't insist on you telling me. I just want you to promise me that you will not make the mistake that I luckily avoided. Because there isn't that much time, it all passes by in a flash. So if you find someone that makes you happy, that you can be yourself around and make them happy in return, don't wait. Promise me, Cristiano.”  
  
They are looking right at each other now and Dinis' pale, watery eyes are piercing through his own. And Cristiano feels hopeless, like he's a little boy again, who can do nothing more than dream of something better, something more.  
  
„Yes, _papá_ ” he says after a longer while, when Dinis falls completely still, his eyes closed like he's not there anymore, „I promise.”

**10th June, 2005**

It takes him a few weeks to fully understand what his father meant but finally he does – somewhere between the hour-long showers or even longer runs that he really shouldn't be taking if he wants to keep his new location private. It's a nice place after all, one that he can actually feel at home in, with it's huge spaces not bound by walls, just meters and meters of dark hardwood floors and all the air that the previous flat didn't have, making him wake up with a scream every other day as if he was drowning. This one is an apartament on the top floor of a building that has a reception desk and a bellboy and sometimes Cris feels so out of place he anticipates someone knocking on his door any second, telling him that there had been a terrible mistake. _Remember, Cristiano. It's important not to give this away if you want to stay here for a while. Keep the information about this place to your closest family and friends_ – he had been told, by his manager and by the owner of the building too, but he doesn't care. Not because he's being autodestructive like Dolores says. He just doesn't think about these kind of things anymore.  
  
In fact, he tries not to think too much at all.

The truth dawns on him quietly and slowly, like the thought was already there, floating around in his mind from the very beginning but he just found it now and decided to let it stay long enough to become something he just knows, without having to consider it all the time. It's the truth about what really happened with Ricky, about how and why he let him go. It's also what his father said, the words fluttering around Cristiano's brain ever since like impatient butterflies, the weight of it too heavy to carry, because it's something he knew much earlier, from the moment he saw Ricky at that pool party almost a year ago – he's the only man that Cristiano has ever loved.  
  
Since the trip to Madeira, he's been in a state of denial, fighting against that knowledge, against the bottomless pit of possibilities that came with it. Because loving someone isn't enough, Cris told himself over and over again, there's also a life to be built together, a life he knows he can't have. Every day is a constant reminder that he chose a different path that doesn't go in the same direction as being with Ricky. But since Madeira, every game and every goal has Cristiano questioning it, the career opening up in front of him, the dream he's had since he can remember. _Is this worth it?_

It pops into his head again on the plane, when he bangs his head violently against the window and wakes up with a jolt. He blinks into the sun, the insanely blue skies welcoming him home and that's when Ricardo appears in his thoughts, because that's where home is and that's where Ricky will always be. Portugal is now tainted - or blessed - and so is playing for the national team. Before it was just work, the greatest honor Cristiano could imagine, the jersey on his back always feeling a lot heavier than it was, the pressure of representing his country always so much more important than all the success he's had in England. But now flying back to play for Portugal is a stream of questions in his mind:  _will he be there, will he talk to me, will he say something about what happened_. He tries to stop himself, because Ricky won't be there, like he hasn't been since the day they saw each other the last time in the airport, with their skin sunkissed and hot, their hands impatient and their eyes too afraid to look at each other.   
  
It's good to be back at Da Luz, it reminds him of what he's there for, what he's doing all this for. The sun blazes onto the grass as he runs out to train, the excitement of playing with the people he knows so well blocking out everything else for a few minutes before he looks up into the stands. Usually his father would be there, the day before the match so he could watch him without the „fuss” as he used to say, but Cristiano knew that he meant the stress and the pressure. And he liked it too, the comfort of just playing football without having to score or win anything. He passes the ball in a perfect cross, Figo winking at him as it flies gracefully straight to Pauleta's feet.  
  
Training is going well and Cris feels light, finally finding something to concentrate on enough to take his mind of all the things that seem to be crumbling around him. It's what he loves most about what he does – the freedom, the way in which the frustration leaves his body with the sweat dripping down his chest and the breaths he lets out into the humid air.

He knows it will happen a few seconds before it does – he's in the air, practicing his headers and then he's on the ground, clutching his knee to his chest. It's stupid, something he would normally never do, letting his excitement make him behave like a hyper child, irresponsibly not concentrating on what he was doing, or maybe not caring. His whole leg twisted when he landed and now he can't decide which part hurts the most as he lies there staring at the sky, everything going quiet before there's a collective gasp from everyone around and a few worried faces above him.  
  
„Cristiano? What happened, are you okay?” somebody asks and he nods as he sits up with a wince and tries to get up and walk it off. It's bad, he already knows it is as he limps towards the sidelines, the pain throbbing it's way up his calf and deep into his thigh muscles. He limps into the tunnel and then the locker room, leaning on the wall for support. Someone sits him down and he stays there numbly as a team of medics examines him and asks him questions, but he doesn't have any answers. His mind is blank and hollow, he doesn't understand the words coming out of their mouths, the pain the only thing keeping him in reality.  
  
„I'll be fine” he mumbles and tries to get up but there's a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down and he doesn't have the strength to fight against it.  
  
The first thing that hits him is Ricky's smell that somehow breaks the barrier between him and the outside world. Cristiano doesn't know if it's perfume or just his natural scent but he remembers it, the hot, intense sensation of getting lost in Ricky's body every time he was near him, without even touching. He smiles slightly and immediately fights against it before lifting his head to meet Ricky's concerned gaze.  
  
"Are you okay?" he asks gently and Cris' heart flips over, blocking out the pain for a few seconds before it comes back in an overwhelming wave. He swallows back the answer and clenches his eyes shut, hoping that when he opens them again he'll somehow be alone and able to focus.  
  
"Cristiano, what's going on? " Ricky tries again and Cris flinches at the sound of his name in his mouth, his hazy mind showing him images of Ricky whispering it to him at night, the round moon shining onto his face as Cristiano leaned over and kissed it off his lips.  
  
He shakes his head and breathes steadily, in and out and again until his heart stops racing and his leg stops shaking.  
  
"I'm fine" he says again, his voice firmer this time, "It's just a cramp, I need to stretch it out."  
  
"Right" Ricky turns around to face the three confused physicians, "You heard the man. He just needs a while."  
  
They all stand there for a few seconds, not sure what to do before they nod disheartedly and walk out of the room. Ricky sighs heavily, looking down at Cris with a pitiful expression on his face and sits down on the bench beside him. His presence is electric and after months of not seeing him at all Cristiano feels too weak to cope with the feeling of his whole body pulling towards Ricky like a magnet. He shifts gently and lets himself slump into the lockers behind him.  
  
"I'm going to ask you one last time. Are you really alright?"   
  
It's his turn to sigh, a bit irritably because the bubble around him is bursting, the pain is fading and he's realizing that Ricky isn't there for the reasons he used to be, he's only there to check if he's fit to play the next day.  
  
"Yes, honestly, I know my body and I know when it's just a strained muscle. I'll be fine tomorrow" he says flatly and Ricky nods beside him. His hair is a bit longer than Cristiano remembers and it falls into his eyes, so Ricky raises a hand to put it back in place.  
  
"I'm not asking about your leg. I'm asking if you're okay, you know, in general."  
  
It's unexpected and Cris begs his mind to focus on his throbbing leg instead of the question because it's just so intimate and close and _so Ricky_ that he can't stand it. The room seems to be closing in on them, the locker handle digging into his back, reminding him of being pushed against it when they kissed, when he already knew that he never wanted to be kissed by anyone else.  
  
"You must be the only person on Earth who can ask a question like that without being disgustingly obnoxious" he mumbles finally, stretching his leg a few times just to feel it, to feel anything except the guilt that's making it's way up his chest and clenching around his throat.  
  
"Well, you're the one who seems to have difficulty just answering it without changing the subject" Ricky shoots back and Cris lets out a laugh involuntarily.  
   
"You know me. I'm always okay."  
  
Ricky lifts his head and looks over his shoulder before Cristiano can look away. For a second he looks right into Ricky's eyes and he knows that words aren't enough to hide it, he knows that Ricky can already tell from the way he speaks or moves or just exists like he's not sure how to do it anymore.  
  
"No, you're not. Nobody is. You're a twenty year old boy who shouldn't be dealing with what you have to deal with on a regular basis. And yeah, I do know you and I know that you don't get asked if you're okay very often. So I thought I would" Ricky sounds tired and bored, like what he's saying is obvious. It's what Cristiano tries to suppress, tries to drown it in the scream of the crowds at stadiums and the constant strain of his body, what he makes himself forget. Anger flushes over him suddenly, blocking out the still present pain in his leg and the fear he felt before and he's thankful for it. Anger is something he knows, something that he can turn into action.  
  
"What are you talking about?" he snaps through gritted teeth, "What is it that I have to deal with?"  
  
Ricky doesn't look away and Cris is transfixed by his relentless gaze for a second before he realizes exactly what Ricky means. And what he means is everything, what happened between them and how it ended. And what Cristiano would always have to hide.  
  
"I don't have to deal with anything any more than any other person in my situation and believe me, I know a lot of similar situations. Please stop painting me as some kind of opressed victim. Nobody made me choose this life" he says, his usual instinct of cutting off the conversation right there making him twitch uncomfortably.  
  
"I'm not talking about us" Ricky cuts him off before he continues, "It was months ago and I understand your reasons. I was talking about your father."  
  
Cris gasps and stands up, his body screaming along with his mind.  
  
"How do you know about that?" he spits.  
  
"Does it matter?" Ricky asks, standing up too, looking up at him with these fucking eyes, these annoyingly good eyes.  
  
"Yes, it fucking matters. Privacy matters, in case you didn't know. Anyway, what do you care about my family situation?" he's almost yelling now and a part of him wants to stop and be mature and collected but a bigger part doesn't care about that or anything else.  
  
"I thought I made it clear a long time ago that I do. Don't ask me why because I don't know and to be honest sometimes I wish I could stop caring, but I can't. Okay?" Ricky answers and he's angry now too, angry like Cristiano has never seen him before, his cheeks flushed and his jaw clenched. There's something brave and shameless about him as he stands before him, his back straight and his gaze hard and serious.  
  
Cris falls silent and just looks at him for a while, not knowing what to do. He wants to get his hands on this man that he's spent a year thinking about now, every day even when they didn't see each other, or especially in those times, when he knew that he'll never be able to touch him again.  
  
"I don't know what to tell you" he says and his tone surprises him, all the anger he felt removed from it, "My father is sick and I don't know if he'll ever get better. I appreciate your concern and I'm sorry about everything that happened. I should have never let it go so far between us."  
  
His voice cracks and he has to force himself to continue.  
  
"But I'm not looking for friends. This can't be a part of my life when I'm trying to focus on playing and being the best I can for my team. My family and everything that goes with it isn't a part of this and I don't want to talk about it, there is nothing to talk about."  
  
Ricky looks at him, examining his face for signs of lies, but Cristiano has been doing this too long to get caught.   
  
"Alright" he says quietly, retreating back to the bench, getting away from him again, his face changing to a blank canvas of a stranger, "I understand. I won't ask you again."  
  
"Thank you" Cristiano manages as casually as he can and turns around to go back to the pitch, his body shaking with the craving to run again, just run into the stadium and into the distance until he somehow forgets that this conversation ever happened.  
  
"Are you sure that going back to training is a good idea?" Ricky shouts after him as he reaches the door.  
  
"No" Cris admits without looking back, "But it's all I've got left."

* * *

**2nd September, 2005**

Ricky has a new strategy.  
  
Every morning, he wakes up as early as he can. No laying around, no drawing it out, he gets up the second he opens his eyes and stands there until he can see clearly. Then, he takes a cold shower and puts on the clothes he prepares the night before. He's out the door before he can form a proper thought and when he drives to work, he listens to the loudest, most energetic songs he knows. He even made a playlist and burned it onto a CD that he doesn't ever take out of his car radio. He takes on additional jobs at work, especially if they involve travelling. He makes new friends at work or outside of work if he can and offers to go out for dinner or drinks almost every day. If nobody's available, he goes to the gym or runs around the block and when he comes home at night, he's too exhausted to do anything but crash into bed and fall asleep in a matter of seconds.  
  
And it works. He knows that he's just pretending, fooling himself and everybody around him but that's okay, because every time he thinks about it, he pushes it back in his mind until it doesn't seem so daunting. And then he's okay again.  
  
He sings all the songs on his way home and thinks about the date he had set up with a rather cute co-worker that had been asking him for months but he always made up an excuse. Today is the day though and he refuses to feel guilty about it. He'll go out with a nice boy to a nice restaurant, have a nice conversation and a nice meal and then when he falls asleep, in his own bed or not, he'll feel like he's crossed another thing off his list. The list of things to do not to think about Cristiano.  
  
It's getting dark already and he runs to the lift from the car park. He just needs to have a quick shower and change his shirt to something more casual but also elegant, maybe the new navy blue one that he just bought recently for occasions like this. If he leaves a few minutes earlier maybe he'll still be able to find a good spot to park near the center. Or maybe he should just get a taxi, that way he could have some wine and feel more relaxed.  
  
He jogs into his corridor and doesn't notice the figure standing by his door at first. He's still humming the last song he listened to in the car when he almost runs into her, letting out a silenced shout and then a laugh.  
  
" _Desculpe!_ " he apologizes, spinning around on his heel and stopping in his tracks, "I didn't notice you, are you-"  
  
The short woman turns around and looks up at him and this time he actually shouts a short shout of utter disbelief as he stares down at her, his mouth half open.  
  
"Hello, Ricardo" Dolores Aveiro says in her quiet, soothing voice and gives him a tired smile, "I'm so sorry to barge in on you. I know that this very out of place, but I thought I would try to find you here before I went to your workplace."  
  
He keeps staring, his heart racing, his mind blank.   
  
"Of course, Mrs Aveiro, hello" he chokes out when she looks at him expectantly, "Please, come in."  
  
His hands are shaking as he fishes out his keys and opens the door for her, cringing at the sight of his messy flat. He's conflicted between being polite and asking what the hell is happening and for a second his head spins so he decides that they should both sit down.  
  
"Have a seat" he offers and shows her to his favourite armchair. She sits down gracefully, her hands in her lap and her brows furrowing as she lifts her head to speak, "Is everything alright?"  
  
"No. Nothing is alright" Dolores says and Ricky's heart falls to his feet, "My son needs you."


End file.
